Beyond The End
by estrafalaria103
Summary: Disaster strikes on the way to Nationals. Injured, lost, and alone, can the New Directions survive the fallout, and find their way back to civilization? Warning: Dark, character deaths, etc.
1. The Beginning and the End

**AN: Sorry to anyone who read the earlier version of this. I didn't really like how that chapter went, and felt in the need for something kind of dark. So. . .entirely revamped version of the story. Not. Happy. But with happy morals! Yay!**

Wes didn't look happy. In fact, Blaine realized with a wince, he looked downright pissed off. And rightfully so. The bus, lined up and ready to take them to Nationals, was costing them extra money with every minute that it sat in the parking lot.

"I called him twice, I don't know what else you want me to do," Blaine sighed. "It's not like I'm Kurt's baby-sitter. You're on the council. . .isn't it your job to keep everyone in line?"

Wes just glowered a bit more. Blaine could almost read the murderous thoughts that must have been going on in his best friend's head. Admittedly, the group needed Kurt – he was the only one who could reach some of the notes that they'd managed to add in to a new, ten part harmony number for Nationals. And most of the boys liked him. But somehow, responsibility for the notoriously tardy diva had fallen squarely on Blaine's shoulders. And while he liked Kurt, and respected him, he certainly didn't want to be _responsible_ for him.

"Okay, look," he said finally. "You guys go ahead. I'll get Kurt and we'll follow you in my car. Okay?"

"Why, Blaine, what a wonderful suggestion," Wes said, his tone positively chipper, though his face still suggested a killing spree. "We couldn't let you drive all that way alone, though."

"Oh, whatever," Blaine sighed. "Just text me when you get to a rest stop. We'll meet you there."

Wes finally smiled at that, and boarded the bus. Blaine watched dejectedly as all the Warblers headed off into the sunset, leaving him behind.

"Kurt, you'd better have a good excuse," Blaine muttered under his breath as he stalked back into Dalton Academy.

He hadn't gone more than a few steps when a bundle of energy nearly pounced on him. Kurt's cheeks were flushed, and his eyes shining. He was so excited, Blaine noticed, that he'd buttoned his blazer wrong, and it hung crookedly on his slight shoulders. Panting, he held up a phone.

"OhmygodBlaine!" he exclaimed. "Look at this! Look at this!"

He practically thrust the phone into Blaine's face. With a sigh, the older boy took it. The anger he'd felt toward Kurt was already dissipating, despite his better instincts. He read the text.

_Hey, boo! Did you hear? The Cleveland Criers couldn't put together the funds to make it to nationals, so they called the highest scoring second place team to fill in – New Directions! We're going to nyC! ~Mercedes_

"They made it, too!" Kurt squeaked. "Isn't this great? I felt so bad when we beat them at Regionals, but now it doesn't matter. We're all going to New York City!"

Blaine tried to smile. He managed to force his lips into something resembling happiness, but he was sure it didn't meet his eyes. New Directions being there just meant more distractions for Kurt. And with a solo and a vital part of every harmony, the Warblers couldn't afford him to be distracted.

Plus, he was still pissed that they'd missed the bus.

"That's great, Kurt," he finally managed to force past stiff lips. "But didn't you forget something?"

"Forget. . .?" Kurt frowned. He glanced up at the ceiling, a habit he had. "I didn't. . .ohmygodblainethebus!"

"Yeah, it left. . ." Blaine lifted his watch and read the time. "five minutes ago. Without us."

"WITHOUT US?" Kurt's voice probably shattered windows somewhere. Blaine winced. He was pretty certain that the Dalton chandeliers, proudly displayed for one hundred and seventy years, were shaking above him. Kurt took a deep breath, and continued speaking in a more normal voice. "Okay, Hummel, don't panic. Dad took your car away, but there are always taxis, or. . ."

"Calm down," Blaine said, a little chuckle in his voice now. It was hard not to see the humor in the situation, with Kurt getting all worked up. "I told Wes I'd drive us to the first rest stop. We can meet up with them there."

'Oh," Kurt nodded his head. "Yeah. Good idea."

His phone buzzed again. This time, Kurt didn't even flip it open, he just stared at it consideringly. "You know what, Blaine, I have a better idea. . ."

"Absolutely not," Rachel Berry said, stomping her foot on the ground. "I refuse. This is a clear abomination and almost certainly against the rules."

"Oh, come on Rachel, it's just Kurt," Mercedes said, winking at her friend. Blaine just watched, somewhat amused, from his vantage point just behind Kurt's shoulders. They were standing in McKinley High's choir room, and Blaine felt a little pang of nostalgia. It was almost exactly like the room at his old school. . .shoddy and worn down, but with splashes of color and personality all over. His lips quirked.

"_Just_ Kurt?" Rachel crossed her arms defiantly. "Need I remind you that he is not a member of the opposition? A Warbler? _And_ he's brought another spy!"

"Shut it, midget," a Latina girl said, standing and sashaying over to where Blaine and Kurt were standing. She smiled at Blaine, one eyebrow raised suggestively. "Hi, handsome," she said, her voice low and husky. Kurt giggled. Santana glared at him.

"Hi," Blaine said, his face as charming as he could make it. "I'm Blaine. You must be Santana."

"At your service," she said.

"Um. . .Santana. . ." Kurt was still giggling. Finn, meanwhile, looked as though he'd been hit on the head with an anvil.

"Oh!" He said, both eyes and mouth as wide as they went. "Kurt, is this the guy you're totally in love with?"

Blaine enjoyed the way Kurt's entire face turned bright red, starting with the tips of his ears. He also enjoyed the way the blonde girl started clapping, and Santana rolled her eyes.

"Really, Kurt?" she asked, venom in her voice. "Going after the straight boys, again?"

"Actually. . ." Blaine coughed delicately into her fist. Santana turned to look at him again.

"Oh," she said. She turned to sit down again, giving one more look over her shoulder. "Well. . .we can always change that," she said. Blaine just shrugged.

At that moment the director of New Directions burst into the room, looking agitated. He pushed his way past Blaine and Kurt to stare down his students.

"Guys, what are we waiting for? The bus is just outside. . ."

All of his students just stared back at him, Mercedes with a broad grin, and Rachel still looking irritated. Mr. Schuester slowly turned around.

"Oh, hi, Kurt. What are you doing here? And hi. . ."

"Blaine," he said, reaching out a hand. "We're actually here asking for a favor. You see, Kurt, being a diva, wasn't ready to hop on our bus on time. They left without us."

"Mr. Schuester, I really think it would be highly irresponsible to allow these two infiltrators to ride with us to Nationals. We should really work through our set list, and perhaps rehearse a few of the numbers."  
"Rachel, Kurt is our friend," the director said decisively. "If he needs a favor from us, then we'll give it to him." Rachel opened her mouth again. "Rachel, this is not a discussion."

As the New Directions members trooped into the hallway, most of them paused to give Kurt a quick hug and shake Blaine's hand. Except for Rachel, who muttered "Traitors!" as she walked by.

They'd been driving for about ten hours. Blaine was still awake, busy texting Wes to chart the progress of the Warblers. They'd arrived in the city, were already checked into the hotel, and busy exploring New York. Blaine sighed. It could have been worse, of course. He liked Kurt's friends – they were full of life, and vim, and vigor, but they weren't _his_ friends. And he'd woken up early. Had he known that he'd miss the bus, he would have slept in the extra hour or two.

Most of the other students were sleeping. Quinn had fallen asleep with her head on Sam's chest, and Finn had laid himself out against an entire row of seats. Brittany's head was resting in Artie's lap. Mercedes was drooling on a window, and he was pretty certain that Santana was drooling on her. Even Kurt had fallen asleep, his head on Blaine's shoulder. Puck was still awake, nodding his head to whatever music was playing on his iPod, and Rachel was staring into a mirror, her lips moving soundlessly.

Blaine was looking out the window when it happened. He saw it, first. A dark cloud, rising above the trees. He frowned. The cloud rose, too quickly to be smoked, as if it were literally propelled upward, growing and blossoming as it rose. He shook his head. He knew that shape, had seen it in his history textbooks. . .

He opened his mouth to yell, a warning, a plea, a prayer, he didn't even know. He opened his mouth, but before any sound could escape that bus was in the air, and he was out of his seat. He crashed into the roof of the bus with a resounding crash, a crack, and a fiery pain in his arm. When the bus jerked again, his body hurtled toward the back, and when his arm collided with a seat, blackness descended.


	2. The Cloud

Rachel woke up screaming. It was bad for her voice, of course, and she really should have calmed her terror in a more productive way, but at the moment she simply couldn't. For once, Rachel Berry had no control over her own voice.

She didn't know what had happened. One minute she'd been staring at her reflection, repeating her mantra (you are a star you are a star you are a star) and in the next the entire world had exploded. Blaine had sort of screamed/yelled, and then the bus was in the air, and there was gritty dust everywhere. She jerked forward, glad that Mr. Schuester had required them to wear seatbelts. Somewhere Mercedes was screaming, and Puck was swearing.

She'd closed her eyes, sent up a quick prayer. The bus hit the ground, and she'd been flung forward again, the seatbelt digging into her hips and shoulders. An acrid scent flew through the bus – death, decay, and burning – and then the bus jerked backward again.

And then nothing.

She thought her own screaming might have woken her up. She opened her eyes to the familiar, worn leather of another seat in front of her. She screamed again.

She wasn't the only one. It seemed like everyone was screaming now. Which was kind of unbelievable, because Rachel was 110% certain that she had the most shrill, piercing scream of anyone, so she couldn't understand why no one was listening to her.

She stopped for a moment, waiting to see if anyone would notice. Apparently not. Rachel sighed. Clearly, she was going to have to take care of the situation. She tried to force memories of black wind and dust from her mind. She unbuckled her seatbelt, and shakily got to her feet.

Everything ached a little, which made sense, since she'd been thrown around a bus. Still. She looked around.

Every single window was broken, and she wondered when that had happened. The back, emergency door swung open, and the front door was completely nonexistent. There were red smears along some of the windows – bloo – she refused to let her mind finish that sentence.

Mercedes was clutching at a sobbing Santana in one seat. Finn, apparently still sleeping, was sprawled along another. Really? Rachel thought incredulously. How could anyone have slept through that?

Quinn was shaking Sam, her breath coming in quick, panicked gasps. Rachel walked over to them. She didn't say anything, still just stood there, shocked. She didn't know what to do. Didn't know where everyone was. Mercedes, Santana, and Quinn seemed all right, at least

Quinn gazed up at her, pretty hazel eyes blurred by tears. "He won't wake up," she gasped. "I don't know what's wrong with him, but he won't wake up."

Rachel decided it probably wasn't prudent to mention the red smear along the side of the bus, a perfect location for Sam to have hit with his head. Her hands shook.

"Where is everyone?" she asked.

Quinn's only response was another choked sob.

Dread in her stomach, Rachel turned around. Sam wouldn't wake up. Was Finn. . .

They still hadn't made up after their fight at Sectionals. Four months, and it had never worked. When she'd decided to be done apologizing, he'd forgiven her. She'd been too proud to take him back, by that time. But now, what if. . .

She walked over to him, stared down at his familiar, handsome face. His mouth hung open, slack. She ran a hand through his hair.

"Finn?" she asked.

"Wha -" it wasn't quite a word, but it was a reaction

"Finn, wake up." She knelt down beside him, clutched one of his hands in both of hers. "Please, Finn. . .something happened. . ."

Finn started to open both eyes, winced, and closed them immediately. "Hurts. . ." he mumbled.

"What hurts?" Rachel asked desperately. She scanned his body, but didn't see any injuries. "Finn, darling, what hurts?"

"Head. . ."

Rachel brought a cautious hand up to her ex-boyfriends head. She was about to knock on it, when she heard a particularly loud scream from outside.

"Just. . .just stay here, Finn," Rachel said. "I'm going to get help. . ."

She walked slowly to the back of the bus, her heart thrumming painfully in her chest. She didn't want to see who was screaming, or why, but she had to get off the bus, with its bloodstains and broken glass. Finn mumbled something behind her, and her heart clenched.

Tina, Mike, and Kurt where gathered in a tight little circle, staring at something on the ground. Tina and Kurt were the ones screaming.

"What is it?" Rachel asked, her voice tight and strained. "What's wrong?"

"Ohmygod ohmygod ohmygod ohmygod," Kurt began muttering, his words fast and slurred together. On the one hand, it was better than the screaming, but did very little to calm Rachel's nerves.

"What?" Rachel pushed her way through, and immediately wished she hadn't. She lurched to the side, and fell to her knees, vomiting on the ground. She hadn't thrown up since a third grade bout with the flu, and it was as horrible as she remembered. Shakily, she brushed the back of her hand against her lips, wishing she had something to wash the taste away with. She stood again. Tina reached out and clutched her arm.

Lauren Zizes lay on the ground in front of them, her legs splayed out. Her eyes were open but unseeing. A long red handle reading "ency Exit" rose out of the middle of her abdomen.

"Is she. . ." Tina, apparently done with the screaming, asked. Mike nodded his head.

"Yeah," he said, his voice low. "I. . .I think so. . ."

Rachel would have sunk to the ground again, if it weren't for Tina's hand, clutching her upper arm. "What happened?" she asked, for what must have been the seventh time. She couldn't tear her gaze away from Lauren's body.

"I don't know," Mike said. "I was asleep. I woke up when. . ."

"Yeah," Tina said softly. "Me, too."

"Where is everyone else?" Rachel asked. "Are they. . ."  
"No," Mike said. "Artie's hurt. . .his chair wasn't locked down. Brittany's with him."  
"Oh," Rachel said. "Puck?"

Mike shook his head. Kurt's head jerked up. "Blaine?" he asked. Mike shrugged.

Rachel blew out a low breath. She hoped Puck was okay. . .she more than hoped. Blaine, she barely knew, but for Kurt's sake she hoped he was well. She thought for a moment.

"Puck wasn't. . .he wasn't wearing a seatbelt," she said lowly. Kurt's head jerked up at that, his eyes wide. He sucked in a quick breath.

"Neither was Blaine."

The boy was whiter than Rachel had ever seen him, his hair unruly, and his eyes bloodshot. She reached out a hand and laid it on his shoulders.

"I'm sure he's okay," Rachel said. "Come on, they have to be nearby."

So the four teens started yelling names out into the tree. Rachel didn't want to stray far from the bus, and she was pretty sure that nobody else wanted to, either. Despite what had happened the bus felt somehow safer than the dark woods. Rachel coughed. The air was still gritty. She hoped it wouldn't permanently harm her voice.

It was at the fourth round of "Puck! Blaine!" being shouted that they finally got a response. It came from the east side of the bus, a weak call back. Kurt immediately ran toward the sound, Mike and Rachel following more cautiously.

She didn't realize she was holding her breath until she let it out at the two familiar figures hobbling toward them. Puck was frowning, and his clothes were torn. He had his left arm looped around Blaine's waist. Both boys' clothing was tattered and torn, and blood was smeared thickly on the right sides of their faces. Puck seemed to be moving more or less steadily, but Blaine seemed to be having trouble walking.

"Ohmygod," Kurt breathed out, bringing one hand up to his mouth. "Blaine. . .your _arm_. . ."

That was when Rachel finally saw it. Blaine's left arm lay flat against his side, almost entirely drenched in crimson. A large tear in the bottom of his sleeve revealed white bone.

"What the fuck just happened?" Puck asked.

"Nobody knows," Rachel said. "The bus just went flying, and there was all this dust, and. . .

"I know what happened," Blaine croaked. He looked up from beneath sweat-soaked curls. "Wasn't anyone else awake?"

"Yeah, but I saw. . ." Puck shook his head. "There's no _way_ I saw what I thought I saw."

"What did you see?" Mike asked. Puck just frowned, and shook his head, as if to repeat that there was no way. Blaine shuddered, breathed in deeply.

"A mushroom cloud," he said thickly. "An atomic bomb."

**A/N: No good! Unfortunately, things don't get much better from here on out. In fact, they get a whole lot worse. . . Reviews are love!**


	3. A Cough

**A/N: So. . .another super-serious chappie. The next up is from Finn's POV, though, so a little humor to look forward to! Thanks to everyone who's been reading, and especially to those of you taking the time to write a review – always much appreciated! Also: all romance will be kept strictly canon (provided I finish before the superbowl!) Though. . .in the world of Glee. . .that can mean almost anything. . .**

Tina was trying really not to panic. Like, really super hard. As Mike had pointed out when she'd finally stopped screaming, panicking would get them nowhere. They had to think this through calmly, figure out what to do. She'd wanted to wait for rescue, but Quinn had pointed out the uselessness of that pretty quickly.

"At least two nuclear bombs just exploded. Nobody's going to be looking for a half-filled schoolbus carrying glee kids."

It was starting to get dark. Only just starting, though, that phase where the sun had sunk below the treeline, but the sky was still bright. Artie and Blaine were trying to start a fire. Tina had asked why, when the weather was perfectly fine, and Artie had just looked at her with a pitying expression and said that they'd want it during the night.

Mike, Kurt, and Puck had left to find food for the fire. Rachel had been given the responsibility of poking Finn every ten minutes to make sure he stayed awake. Quinn had taken one look at his face after waking before declaring that he had a concussion.

"And just how do you know that?" Rachel had asked, hands on her hip. Quinn sighed.

"Please. After two years as head cheerleader, you learn a bit of first aid."

But Quinn hadn't been the one to bind up Blaine's arm. That had been Santana, with her jaw set and her brown eyes narrowed.

"Shut up, pretty boy," She'd repeatedly snarled, as she'd tightly tied his forearm to one of the armrests from Artie's chair. They'd ripped up one of Finn's shirts to make the binding. Blaine only screamed twice throughout the ordeal. Mostly he'd just sat there, pale, sweaty, and panting. Tina thought that Kurt should have held his hand, or something, but Kurt had just silently sobbed, while Mercedes hugged him.

Sam still wasn't awake, and Quinn was sitting beside him, gently running her fingers through his bleached hair, and staring sightlessly into the sky. Tina felt useless. It seemed like everyone had found something to do. Except her. Sideline Tina. She felt a tickle in the back of her throat, and coughed into her jacket sleeve.

"Hey," Mercedes said, quietly sidling up next to her. "You okay?"

"Not really," Tina said.

"Yeah. . ." Mercedes sighed. "Me, neither."

"I feel like I should be doing something," Tina said. "But I don't. .I don't know what to do."

"I'm hungry," Brittany sighed.

"Frankenteen has a whole box of snacks on the bus," Santana said. "Go ahead and grab some."

Brittany looked back at the bus, a look of abject terror on her face. "I don't want to go back in there," she whispered. "Not alone."

Tina coughed again, and wiped her hands down the side of her jeans. Finally, she'd found something she could do. "Come on, girls," she said, as decisively as she could. "We've got to clean out the bus some time. Might as well be now."

For all of her brave words, Tina wasn't the first one to step back onto the bus. She just got to the back door, and stared at it. The swirled red patterns had dried to a dusky brown. She thought it made everything look somehow worse. Like it had happened to someone else, when the proof that it had just happened to her was just outside. She took a deep breath.

Santana sneezed. "Allergies," she huffed, before jumping up into the bus. Tina followed just after.

It was hard to believe that only a few hours ago they'd all been sitting in this same bus. Every single window was shattered, thick panes of glass littering the floor. Impossible, for that two-inch thick glass to shatter, and yet the proof of it was ground into vinyl seats and dusted the dirty floor. There was less blood than Tina remembered. . .some near where the back door had been – where Puck and Blaine had been thrown. Some where Sam had been sitting, where Finn had been sleeping. Other than that, just drops, little minute remains from the cuts and scrapes that they'd all endured.

Trying to free her mind, Tina grabbed the first suitcase that she saw, and passed it down to Mercedes.

Santana, meanwhile, was rifling through backpacks, crowing in triumph every time she found food.

It took almost an hour for them to clean out the bus. When Tina left, she saw that Brittany and Mercedes had started sorting through luggage and backpacks, pulling out whatever food Santana hadn't already unearthed.

Tina filled her arms with bags of chips and cookies, and walked them over to where Blaine and Artie were huddled around a tiny spark.

"Look, Tina! We started a fire!" Artie exclaimed excitedly. He was lying on his stomach on the ground, presumably to get closer to the fire than he ever could in his wheelchair. He blew possessively on the smoldering twigs.

"Thank goodness for all those years in boy scouts," Blaine said. Tina watched critically as the boy blew out a long breath, wincing at the movement in his broken arm. He didn't look very good, his normally olive complexion drained of all blood. It looked like the makeshift bandages had already turned red.

"I can't believe you remembered all that stuff," Artie laughed. "I was all for just using my glasses."

Moments later, the boys returned, their arms laden with fallen branches. Puck would have just dumped his load onto the struggling fire, if Blaine and Artie hadn't simultaneously yelled "No!"

Kurt knelt down, and smiled shyly. "How many should I put in?" he asked.

"Just one or two," Blaine instructed. "When it groves a bit, we'll add some more."

Puck stacked the rest of the branches. Mike held out his arms, and Tina flew to him. She breathed in deeply his musky scent, accented now by the damp forest. He felt strong, solid, real. She coughed into his chest.

"Sorry," she said.

"S'okay," Mike's eyes crinkled when he smiled down at her. "My throat's been scratchy all day, anyway. I doubt you'll get me sick. Asian kiss?"

"Asian kiss," Tina agreed, leaning in. And then she couldn't help it. Because they were in the middle of the forest, because Lauren was _dead_, and Mr. Schue was missing, and Sam was still unconscious, and Finn wouldn't stop vomiting, and Blaine was bleeding over everything, and their bus was a miss, and Santana was stuffing her face, and Rachel was glaring at everyone, and her throat hurt and her head felt filled with cotton, and it was the worst day _ever_, but Mike was still asking permission for Asian kisses, and he was still _super_ hot, and it was just all to much.

She burst into hysterical giggles.

Mike's arms tightened around her, and she could almost feel Puck's eyes rolling in his head.

"Great," he muttered. "We're stuck in the middle of nowhere, and people are already starting to go Looney Tunes."

For some reason that struck Tina as even funnier, and she laughed harder. Her knees gave way, and the only way she was still upright was because her wonderful, beautiful, supermegafoxyawesomehot boyfriend was holding her.

"Do I smell s'mores?"

Finn's question was enough to set off Mike, and Mercedes, and in a moment everyone was giggling. It was too high-pitched, too screechy to be true laughter, but it was a relief from the tension.

"Is that a no?" Finn asked.

"Mm. . .I don't think so," Santana said. She sneezed twice, in rapid succession. "Let's see. . .Sam brought some granola bars. . .Mercedes has, like, a thousand and one chocolate bars. Anybody bring marshmallows?"

Brittany smiled and raised her hand. "The colored ones," she chirped.

Santana grinned. "Well, there you go, Frankenteen," she said fondly. "Sounds like you can have s'mores."  
"Oh, good," Finn said. His eyes were still unfocused, and he was kind of weaving around a little where he was sitting, but he had stopped vomiting at least. "I'm starved."

"I'm not sure you should eat with a concussion," Rachel said worriedly, poking him again for good measure.

"That's ridiculous," Quinn said haughtily. "Of course he can eat."

Santana and Brittany dragged their finds over to the slowly growing fire, and all of the teenagers gathered around it. Tina wiped tears from her eyes. She took a PopTart that Brittany offered her, and slowly bit into it.

It was probably the worst day of her life, but as Tina sank in to Mike's solidness, she realized with relief that they'd really gotten off pretty easily. Most of them were relatively unharmed, just bumps and scrapes. They had food, the bus still worked. . .they would get on in the morning and drive somewhere. It could have been worse.

Tina woke up at two in the morning, gasping and unable to catch her breath. It felt like her chest was on fire, her head was exploding. . .everything was just a sea of red pain. She tried to close her eyes again, and that helped a little. She coughed, trying to extract whatever was sitting in her lungs, but it was no use. She sucked in air, greedily, but it just made everything hurt worse.

She rolled over to her side, reaching one hand out to Mike, but her boyfriend was propped on both elbows, dry-heaving. Tina propped herself up, terror lying low in her belly. The sounds of coughing and vomiting filled her ears. Everywhere she looked, her friends were exhibiting symptoms of a bad cold, coughing, retching, or twisting restlessly. Only Sam and Finn were completely unaffected – Sam still unconscious, and Finn evidently sleeping peacefully. Tina wondered where Rachel was, surprised that the tiny girl wasn't making sure that her boyfriend stayed awake.

Another coughing bout interrupted any curiosity that Tina possessed. She lay back down, reached out a hand to Mike, again. This time, he reached back, and they clutched hands.

Shakily, Tina ran a hand through her hair. Her stomach clenched again when it came back with several strands of long, black hair.

It had just gotten a lot worse.

**Upcoming: Finn! Yay! Thanks for reading, reviews are love!**


	4. Fishing

**A/N: Probably won't get an update tomorrow, as it's NYs, so here's a SUPER LONG ONE. Enjoy!**

Finn's head hurt. A lot. And he felt like he'd been hit by a six-ton truck carrying bricks. Lots and lots of bricks. He kept his eyes closed, breathing in and out through his nose, just like Coach Beiste had taught him after taking a particularly heavy hit in football. He tried to listen for birdsong – they were in the forest, after all, shouldn't he be able to hear birds? – but all that he could hear were clattering teeth, suppressed groans, and exhausted coughs.

He opened his eyes, sitting up slowly, fighting against the dizziness that apparently wanted him to fall back to the floor again. In and out, nice and slow. At least today there were only two of everything. Two fires swam in front of him, two Rachel Berry's lay on the ground, pale and sweaty.

Wait. . .what?

Finn reached a hand out toward his girlfriend – _ex_-girlfriend – but drew it back almost immediately. Her skin was burning hot, mottled pink and red. He gasped.

"Rach. . ." he muttered. "Rach. . .are you okay?"

His stomach twisted and his head pounded.

"Hey," Blaine's soft voice interrupted him. Finn turned around to see two, curly-headed boys staring at him. "How are you feeling?"

"My head hurts and I want to go home," Finn whined. He paused for a moment. "But I guess I feel better than yesterday, at least."

Blaine leaned in closer, and Finn remembered with a panic that that Kurt had said the guy was gay. Finn tried to scramble back on his elbows as hazel eyes came nearer to him. Was the dude trying to _kiss_ him?

In the back of his mind, Finn was a little proud of himself for having mad gay attracting powers.

"Your eyes are better," Blaine said, sitting back a little. "The pupils aren't blown anymore. I think you'll be okay."

"Oh," Finn said. "Okay. Cool."

"And it doesn't seem like you're sick. . .not like they are," Blaine said. "That's good."

"Yeah," Finn agreed, because not-being sick was always good. Not that it was good that his friends were sick. Because that definitely wasn't good. To his left, Puck moaned and brought his knees up to his chest. That was just weird, seeing Puck curled up like a baby. Or a little girl. Or, like, a cat.

Quinn broke out in a low series of gasping coughs, before moaning herself.

"They really don't sound good," Finn frowned.

Blaine leaned over, and pressed the back of his hand against Puck's forward. He drew it back with a sharp hiss. "Finn, they're burning up. They need to get to a hospital."

Finn nodded. He didn't know where there was a hospital, but he figured that somebody could pull it up on his phone. He just hoped that the bus still worked.

"Yeah," he said. "I'll start helping everyone into the bus. You get it started."

Finn tried to stand up, but as a wash of nausea swept him, found that he could only make it to his knees in one go. He closed his eyes, breathing in short pants again. When he opened them again, Blaine's hazel eyes were frighteningly close. Also frightening – the fact that he seemed to have four of them. Finn slid back onto his butt with a fierce whoomph.

"Finn. . ." Blaine said, and then seemed to reconsider whatever he was planning on saying. He shook his head. "I can't drive the bus."

"Why not?"

Blaine gestured toward his sling. Finn frowned.

"I don't get it," he admitted. "You only need one hand to drive."

Blaine shook his head. "Not on these roads. It's too uneven. Besides, every time I bang it against something, I almost pass out. You'll have to drive."

Finn snorted. "Yeah, right," he said. "I still can't drive a regular car. My mom still drives me to school, remember? Besides. . .I'm still seeing two of everything. What happens if I drive into the real tree instead of the fake tree? That wouldn't be good."

"No," Blaine sighed. "No, it wouldn't."

Finn sat down, staring expectantly at Blaine. The older boy, for that matter, just continued to frown. After about two minutes, Finn's vision readjusted, so thre was only one boy kneeling in front of him. He was bored.

"So?" he finally asked.

"So what?"

"So what do we do now? How do we get to the hospital?"

Blaine sighed, and looked up. Finn followed his line of sight. The sky was a murky brown color, and Finn wasn't sure if it was a layer of clouds giving it that post-apocalyptic shade, or if the sky had just changed color. He tried to remember why the sky looked blue to begin with. Hadn't Brittany said it was to complement the green of the grass? He looked down at the grass, to see if it had changed color, too.

"You see that?" Blaine asked. Finn frowned. The grass looked pretty normal. What was Blaine talking about? Not wanting to seem dumb, he said "Yes."

"We were miles away from those two bombs," Blaine said. "The sky here shouldn't be so affected. Which means there were more than two."

"Okay," Finn agreed. Tina was panting in short, harried gasps.

"So that means those bombs weren't set off for a war," Blaine said. "Or to take out a city. Somebody was trying to destroy all of the U.S. Or at least all of New York and Pennsylavnia."

"Sure," Finn said. He was even more confused now, though. Wasn't Pennsylvania somewhere in Europe? He was pretty sure that was where Dracula lived, and he was also pretty sure that Dracula didn't live in America.

"We can't call an ambulance," Blaine sighed. "They'll be dealing with. . .right. We'll just have to stay tight, and do the best we can."

"Sure," Finn said. That, at least, he understood. He cautiously made his way to his knees. So far so good.

"I don't know what to do for them, though. . ." Blaine said, seemingly distressed. He reached out his arm, tenderly brushed Kurt's hair back off his forehead. It was a distracted motion, Finn thought. Kind of the way he'd kiss his mom good-bye before school every day. Just an everyday gesture. Thinking of his mom gave Finn an idea.

"When I get sick, Mom always makes me chicken soup," he said. Blaine looked up at him.

"We don't have any chicken," he said slowly.

"Oh, yeah." Finn hit himself in the head with the back of his fist. That, it turned out, was a really bad idea. Because it hurt. A lot. "Sorry. Dumb idea."

"Maybe not. . ." Blaine considered. "We have to find water anyway. . .and if we caught some fish. . .it wouldn't be chicken broth, but fish broth should be okay, right?"

Finn thought about mentioning the fish broth sounded really gross, but Blaine was looking so hopeful that he didn't dare do it. "Um. . .sure?" he said.

"Okay," Blaine nodded. "You get yourself something to eat, and try to get everyone to drink something. I'll go try to find a source of water."

Finn nodded. That seemed like a pretty good deal to him, especially since his stomach was growling and knotting up. Blaine absently pat Kurt's hand one last time, before standing, wincing heavily as his bandaged arm swung against his chest. He took off into the woods in a shambling walk.

Finn crawled over to the stack of snacks that Santana and the girls had salvaged from the bus. He started off with a bag of chips. Washed that down with a Dr. Pepper (which mysteriously had a toothbrush rubberbanded to it). Considered whether to eat two PowerBars, and then decided it was probably worth it. He blinked three times after eating, until Rachel's three faces merged into one. He grabbed a bottle of water, and went to her side.

"Hey, Rach," He said, prodding her in the side. She opened her lips, but her eyes were still tightly closed. Her hair was kind of gross and sweaty, but Finn decided to ignore that. "Rach," he said again, poking her harder. This elicited a low groan. Finn shrugged. He'd seen this in movies. He put the bottle to her lips. "Listen, Rachel, you've got to drink this, okay? It's going to make you better." He poured the water in her mouth. She kind of choked, rolled to her side and. . .sort of. . .vomited? Awkwardly, Finn reached out and pulled the hair out of her face. He wiped her mouth with his sleeve.

Taking care of sick people was super gross.

This time he tried propping Rachel up against his chest. He maneuvered her body into an upright position (it was super hot, just like Blaine had said – hot enough that, even with Rachel entire body propped against his, he didn't have to think about the mailman) As he wrapped one arm around her middle to keep her in place she opened her eyes.

"Finn?" she asked blearily, turning her head to look at him.

"Hey, Rach," He said gently. He brought the water up again. "You have to drink this."

"Don't wanna," she mumbled, her eyes falling closed again.

"Come on," Finn said, panicking a little now. "Blaine said you have to drin. It will make you better."

"Hurts," she mumbled, but she opened her mouth a little. This time, Finn didn't just dump the water in. He dribbled it, just a little. She drank, and then shuddered a little.

"Finn," she mumbled again.

"Shh," he said. He planted a soft kiss against the back of her head. "Just a little more. . ."

He got her to take three more sips before she resolutely refused to drink anything else, closing her mouth, and turning away from him.

Finn was getting kind of worried now, because everyone was sick. Like, really, really sick. He was pretty sure that this was worse than when he'd gotten the flu a year ago. Way worse. He shot his eyes skyward.

"Um. . .Grilled Cheesus. . ." he tried. "I know that I don't really believe in you. And, you know, I kind of ate you. But this is really super bad, and if you are like a genie, I could really use another wish. And I wish everyone got better. Because this super sucks. Um. . .thanks, Grilled Cheesus."

He moved on to Quinn, and repeated everything he'd done with Rachel. Then Brittany. Then Mercedes. He was just trying to get Tina to eat when Blaine came stumbling back through the woods.

"Hey," he said, sinking down beside Finn. "How are they doing?"

"Dude, they're sick," Finn said. "Like. . .sick like people in zombie movies."

A terrible thought occurred to him, and he stared down at Tina, looking for signs of rotting flesh. Blaine apparently knew where his mind was going.

"They're not going to turn into zombies," he said. "I think they have. . .never mind. I found water. And fish. I need you to come with me and help me catch them."

Finn frowned. He still hadn't given any of the guys anything to drink. Or Santana. And, to be honest, he was kind of afraid to. If one of the girls became a zombie, he thought he could probably take them, but Zombie Puck would probably eat his head off, and Zombie Santana would probably turn his balls into a short lunch. He didn't want to leave his friends, but he really didn't want to become a zombie snack, no matter what Blaine said.

"Okay, sure," He said, jumping to his feet.

He would have pitched over if Blaine hadn't thrown himself against Finns' side, wrapping his good arm around him. Finn's arm fall over Blaine's shoulder, but he jerked it back when Blaine gave a strangled yell.

"Sorry," he said. He was sorry, since he'd clearly hit Blaine's broken arm. But mostly he was trying really, really hard not to throw up. Also, to make the five Tina's lying on the ground merge back into one Tina.

Blaine just gasped for two minutes. When Finn finally fought down the urge to puke, he realized that he'd tightly grasped the top of Blaine's shirt, and he wasn't quite sure who was holding who up anymore.

"We make quite a pair, don't we," Blaine said with a small smile. "You can barely stand and I've only got one arm."

"I'll be ok," Finn said. "I've gotten lots of concussions before."

Blaine laughed a little at that, a short chuckle. Finn glanced down at him. At some point Blaine's hair had come ungelled, and short little curls sprang up from his head. He had hazel eyes.

"Okay," Blaine said. "Come on, let's put all the empty bottles in a bag. We'll fill them up, and then I'll teach you how to fish."

Finn nodded. They disentangled from each other, and slowly made their way to the discarded bottle. Blaine began awkwardly stuffing them into a backpack with his good arm. Finn just walked. He was pretty sure that if he knelt down he wouldn't be getting up again any time soon. When Blaine finished he straightened with a grunt.

"I see what Kurt sees in you," Finn mentioned, as they began walking into the woods. "You're kind of perfect. No homo."

"Thanks," Blaine said. "I think the kind of perfect guy is going to hand you the backpack before he passes out."

"Sure," Finn said, and took the backpack. His arms felt kind of shaky, but the bag wasn't heavy at all.

It only took about ten minutes to find the small pond. Blaine knelt down, and reached out a hand for the bag.

"I'll fill out the bottles, while you make a hook," he said. Finn dropped the backpack, but then just continued to stand there. Blaine filled up one bottle before noticing that Finn still hadn't moved.

"Um. . .I don't know how to do that," he said. Blaine just frowned up at him. "There are paperclips right there," He pointed to the front pocket of the backpack. "You just have to bend it into a hook shape. Then I brought some of the thread I found in Mercedes' bag. Tied that around the top. Dig for some worms, and throw it in.

"Um. . . ."

Blaine blew out a short breath. "I wish Artie were here. . ." he said.

Finn frowned. "Because you think I'm stupid?" He asked. "Because I'm not stupid. I know everyone thinks I am, but just because I'm not really good at reading, and numbers are hard, that doesn't mean I'm dumb." He kicked at the ground. "I'm not dumb."

"I don't think you're dumb," Blaine said. He began filling another bottle. "I just meant that Artie was in the Boy Scouts when he was younger. They probably taught him how to MacGyver a fishhook. That's all."

"Oh," Finn frowned, and then sat down. He tried to follow Blaine's directions. When he messed up, Blaine corrected him. Eventually he got two hooks made and threaded, and pierced the worms.

"Now what do we do?" he asked, after throwing them into the water. Blaine shrugged.

"We wait. And pray."

Finn didn't tell him he'd already said a prayer.

**A/N: Don't worry. This is not going to be a Finn/Blaine hook-up. Blaine has much better taste in boys than Kurt. Reviews are love!**


	5. Fever

**A/N: I now have more people who want to be alerted to this story, and who have marked it as a favorite, than have reviewed/commented on it. WEIRD. Anyway, enjoy! Not a lot of action in his one. . .my apologies.**

**Also: in response to questions: Artie was injured, but not badly, and Blaine doesn't "know" anything, he's just guessing. **

The plan was to sleep in shifts. One of them was supposed to stay awake, spooning fish broth into the sick students' mouths, forcing water down their throats, placing wet clothes on feverish foreheads. That was the plan. They'd agreed to make the shifts short – two hours and then a switch. Blaine doubted how well that would refresh him or Finn, but he also knew that he wouldn't be able to care for anyone for much more than two hours. So after throwing a few more logs into the fire that he and Artie had put together only the day before, he sent Finn to take a nap.

It was the longest two hours of his life.

Blaine's arm was in constant, throbbing pain. He'd had to ask Finn to change the bandage earlier in the day, since the dried blood rendered his broken arm even more immobile, and kind of gross. Neither he nor Finn knew much about first aid – in retrospect, they probably should have wetted the cloth before trying to remove it. It had been a painful experience – as harsh as Santana had been, she'd known what she was doing, and Finn's more gentle bumblings were a thousand times more painful. Blaine had also pulleda glove over that hand. . .it freaked him out a little to see his hand, unable to do anything. Plus. . .

It was hard, too, maneuvering people into position, to pour broth into their mouths. Finn had shown him how to prop them up against his chest, but it was hard with just one arm. Plus, with Finn's still-existant fear of zombie attack, Blaine had the responsibility for all of the males plus Santana.

He started with Puck, figuring that he would get the biggest out of the way while he was still feeling halfway capable. There was no way he was getting Puck into a sitting position, though – the guy was half a foot taller, and had at least fifty pounds on him. Instead, yanking at the hood on his sweatshirt, Blaine was able to pull the football players head into his lap.

"Man," Blaine muttered as he grabbed the thermas they'd filled with fish juices and water. Normally this would have been a nice little daydream. Except that Puck was mumbling incoherently, and kept twisting his head from side to side. Not so daydreamy.

He did all right with Mike, but Artie threw up as soon as he'd spooned anything into his mouth. He tried to rebandage Artie's legs, which had gotten pretty badly scraped out and bruised by his wheelchair, but had to give up. There just wasn't any way he could tie a knot with one hand.

His watch beeped at him. Two hours. He hadn't given Kurt or Santana anything yet, but he and Finn had agreed upon a set schedule. His entire body ached, anyway, and his eyes were going fuzzy and blurry. He kicked the other boy awake, and lay down himself. Within moments he had fallen asleep.

It seemed like much less than two hours before callused hands were shaking him awake again. Blaine blinked blearily, peering up into Finn's face.

"My turn again?" he asked. Finn just pressed his lips tighter together and shook his head. Blaine pushed himself awkwardly into a sitting position, "What is it, then?"

Finn crossed his arms, and sighed. "It's. . .uh, it's Quinn. She's, like, hot."

"They're all hot, Finn," Blaine pointed out. "Everyone has a fever."

"But not like this," Finn insisted. "Please, just. . .come. . ."

So Blaine forced himself upright, screwing his eyes tightly together to fight the dizziness and nausea. His arm was screaming at him _Oh, God, it was broken bad_ and he tried hard to ignore it. _Can't even move my hand. What if I can never use my hand again_? He refused to listen to those thoughts, though, not when students were lying, moaning on the ground, and Finn was staring at him like he had all the answers.

"Okay," Blaine said. "Okay, let's go."

The blonde cheerleader seemed calmer than the other students. She wasn't coughing, or retching, or writing in pain. She was just calmly sleeping, her arms folded under her cheek, making a kind of pillow. The color had come back into her face, too. She really was quite pretty, Blaine noticed, with her pale skin and all that blonde hair.

Finn dropped to his knees beside her, and put his hand to her forehead, quickly pulling it away with a sharp hiss. He glanced up at Blaine, his dark eyes filled with concern. "See that?" he asked. "That's not normal, is it?"

Blaine restrained himself from responding that none of this was normal. He knelt down clumsily, losing his balance in the process and having to steady himself with his one good hand. Slow, deep breaths, he reminded himself, before reaching out to touch the girl.

He could feel the heat before his skin even made contact. Waves of heat, like being near a candle. He frowned. Touched her, only briefly, before pulling his hand back. It felt like touching fire. Mirroring Finn, he hissed sharply.

"So?"

Blaine sighed. "You're right, Finn. That's not normal."

"So what do we do?"

Blaine didn't know. He really had no idea. He wanted to pull out his hair, to scream that he didn't know anymore than the other boy, that he was just a kid, just a student. He wanted to go back to sleep and pretend that his gut was already twisted up with fear for his arm. He wanted to go back to the morning, and get on the bus with the Warblers.

Except that the Warblers would have been in the city already. And if atomic bombs had been dropped somewhere in Pennsylvania, there had certainly been one dropped in New York.

_Where any of his friends still alive_?

He wanted it to be last Tuesday.

"I don't know what to do," Blaine said honestly. "We can wet some clothes. . .put them on her forehead, try to cool her down."

"Okay," Finn said eagerly, and hurried over to where the water bottles lay. Blaine noticed that they were low on the broth, that the water as half gone. They'd have to get more tomorrow. They'd have to gather more firewood. They had to figure out a way to move everything. . .

He knew what that burning sensation in his throat was, knew the itching in his eyes, and he absolutely refused to cry.

He just went to grab some broth, and then to Santana's side. He lifted her head into his lap, and slowly dripped the broth in. Her lips crept out of her mouth to lick up the excess, and he figured that was probably a good sign.

He moved onto Kurt, and the younger boy's eyes instantly opened.

"Blaine? He murmured.

"Yeah, it's me," Blaine replied. "Here, open up. You have to eat a little."

"Can't," Kurt sighed, and turned his head to the side. "I'm so sorry. . ."

"For what?" Blaine laughed a little as Kurt peeked up at him from beneath heavy eyelashes.

"My fault you were on the bus."

"Shh," Blaine said, his chest constricting painfully, and he felt guilty having thought that just a few minutes earlier. "That's not your fault. Well. . .it was your fault. But you couldn't have known. Now come on, sip some."

Kurt just moaned. Blaine stubbornly pushed the thermos turned the boys lips.

"Please, Kurt. Just one little sip."

Another moan.

"For me?"

Kurt's eyes sought his out again, in the gloom, and gave a small little nod. Feeling more than a little triumphant, Blaine drizzled a little liquid into Kurt's throat.

"There now. That wasn't so bad."

Kurt wrinkled his nose. "Tastes like fish."

"Mmm-hmmm," Blaine said with a smile. "That's just the fever talking. It's chicken noodle soup. Come on now, have another taste."

So, sip by agonizingly slow sip, Blaine talked Kurt into drinking half a cup of broth. He figured that was probably good enough for the moment.

"I like birds," Kurt said, out of nowhere. Blaine put down the thermos, and threaded his hand through Kurt's hair. If the boy hadn't been feverish, he would probably never have allowed it. Blaine new how fiercely protective he was of his hair.

"And I like the uniforms. . .and the dorms. . ."

Blaine slowly lowered Kurt back onto the ground. Out the side of his eye he could see Finn, still nervously kneeling beside Quinn, and knew he needed to get back over there. Kurt was still muttering, clearly delirious, and Blaine doubted he would even notice his absence.

"and I like rainbows. . .and guitars. . .and lattes. . ."

"Any improvement?" Blaine asked Finn, when he'd finally reached the taller boy. Finn just shrugged. "I don't know," he said. "I'm so tired. . ."

"Go back to sleep," Blaine suggested. "I'll be okay for two more hours."

"You sure?" Finn asked, and Blaine shrugged. He wasn't sure at all, but he knew that he did not want Finn to get ill as well. He thought he'd go crazy if he had to take care of everyone alone.

"Thanks," Finn said, and clamped a heavy hand down on Blaine's shoulder. The bad one, of course, and Blaine bit his tongue in an effort not to cry out. Finn winced.

"Sorry," he said.

"You should be," A cracked voice said. Finn and Blaine both glanced down. Quinn had her eyes open, and was slowly sitting up. Her eyes were clear, no sign of fever.

"Quinn?" Finn asked. "Are you okay? How do you feel?"

"I feel fine," Quinn said. "Just a little tired. Here, give me a hand, please."

Finn reached down, palm up. The minute Quinn touched him, however, he jumped back, snatching his hand away and hissing in pain.

"Please," Quinn said sarcastically, rolling her eyes. "Why are you being such a drama queen?"

Finn didn't look at her, though, when he answered. He was looking at Blaine, his eyes wide and terrified.

"Blaine. . .she's really burning up."

**A/N: Sorry for the weak ending. Bleh. . .Klaine. . .sometimes I'm such a fangirl. **


	6. A Burning Sensation

**A/N: Mua ha ha. Slowly they are waking. . .so slowly. . .**

**Thanks for reviews! Always appreciated, and always great incentive to keep writing! Especially as classes start up again next week. . .groan. . .**

Quinn didn't feel horrible. Sure, her entire body ached, and she felt sore, but it wasn't any different than the day after a bad cold. And it was way, way better than giving birth. She felt clear-headed, and composed, and more or less recovered.

Obviously, Blaine and Finn didn't think she'd recovered.

"Well. . ." Finn said, still standing near ten feet away from her. "I guess we should look at the bright side." Blaine quirked an eyebrow, and Quinn put one hand on her hip. "I mean. . .now we don't have to get firewood. We can just use Quinn."

"Finn, seriously, stop being a moron," Quinn said fiercely. "It's just a little residual fever."

"I don't think so," Blaine said. For the fourth or fifth time he reached his hand out toward her, pulling it back when it got within a foot. "Finn's right. You're really hot."

"Well, thank you," Quinn said with a smile, even though she _knew_ that wasn't what she meant. Also, her gaydar was giving regular blips, just standing next to the guy. Blaine smiled.

"I don't know. . ." he sighed. "Finn's right, though, Quinn, your skin is way too hot."

"I think that gives you brain damage," Finn said, completely unhelpfully. Quinn wondered, not for the first time, what she had ever seen in the quarterback. He was really, really dumb.

"Well, I _feel_ fine," Quinn said. "And if anyone has brain damage around here, it's Finn." She looked critically at the two boys. Both had dark circles under their eyes, and looked about ready to collapse. "And, by the way, both of you look like shit."

"Thanks," Blaine said, fluttering his eyelashes. "Just what a boy likes to hear."

"Seriously," Quinn insisted, quieter now. "You should both get some sleep. What do you need me to do?"

"Can you drive?" Blaine asked. Quinn snorted.

"Of course I can drive. Everyone here can drive. . .well, except Brit and Finn. They couldn't pass the test."

"Dude, it was _hard_," Finn protested.

"Great," Blaine seemed encouraged by this, and began nodding his head vigorously. Dark curls fell in his eyes. "Can you see if you can get the bus started? I think the best thing for everyone would be to get to a hospital as soon as possible."

"Sure," Quinn said. "Anything else?"

"Can you fish?" Finn asked hopefully.

"Um. . .if you give me a rod. How hard can it be?"

Finn shoved a string and paperclip into her hands. "Awesome," he said. "I'm going to sleep."

"Here," Blaine said with a sheepish smile. "I'll show you how."  
Quinn, however, took one more look at the boy and shook her head. His face was deeply lined, and she didn't know whether it was exhaustion or pain, but based on the way he was hunching over his broken arm, she assumed largely the latter. There was still a thick coating of blood on the left side of his face. Finn, for that matter, hadn't looked much better.

"Look, you need to get some sleep," Quinn said. "You and Finn have been in charge for, what, two days? Have you slept at all?" Blaine shook his head. Quinn reached out to put a hand on his shoulder, but he winced away. She tried to ignore how that felt. "Get some sleep, Blaine. You're no good to anyone if you fall dead from exhaustion. I've got this."

He nodded, thankfully she liked to think, and headed over to where Finn was already laid out. Quinn shook her head ruefully. Finn had known Kurt for years, and had barely been able to be in the same room as the kid when he learned about Kurt's sexuality. He'd met Blaine a week ago, and was happily curled up next to him. She wasn't sure if Finn had just grown, or. . .

She shook her head. Time to be useful. Quinn Fabray was nobody's charity case, and she was going to make sure that when the boys woke up, she had everything ready for them. She went to the bus, first, agreeing with Blaine that getting the bus moving should be the top priority. But when she turned the key in the ignition, nothing happened. No sound from the engine, no gears shifting, nothing. She tried again, still with no success.

"Of course, _nothing_ can be easy," she muttered, and hopped out to go take a look under the hood. She stared at it for five long minutes before admitting that she had no idea what she was looking at.

Right, then. Fishing.

The "rod" that Finn had given her didn't look very helpful. It was literally nothing more than a piece of string, knotted about a paperclip. Quinn frowned. Totally gross. She was pretty sure that there were still fish guts on the paperclip. She looked out at the woods, and realized that she had absolutely no idea where the pond, lake, river, whatever was. She glaned over at Finn and Blaine. Finn was lying on his back, snoring loudly. One massive arm was flung out, over Blaine's shoulder. Blaine's breath was escaping in a wheezy whistle, but with the slow, steady beats of a person who was asleep.

Had Quinn been any good at tracking, she would have noticed that a pair of footprints had treaded the way. Quinn, however, was not any good at reading tracks, and didn't notice. She bit her lip, trying to decide whether she should risk getting lost, or just wake up Blaine (she knew it was useless to get Finn – they'd _both_ probably end up lost.)

"Hey, babe, enjoying the view?"

Quinn came to with a start, as she realized that her gaze had settled on Puck. He, for his part, was lying on his back, arms folded carefully beneath his head.

"Please," Quinn said with a sneer. "As if I like looking at someone from juvie."

Puck just grinned wider. Quinn sighed. She glanced around at everyone else. With the exception of Finn, Blaine, and Sam, everyone appeared to still be sick. Of course, Sam was still unconscious – a sharp pike of fear rose in Quinn's heart as she wondered if he would ever wake up. Puck, meanwhile, sat up, stretching his arms over his head. He winced a little, which focused Quinn's attention back on him.

"What are you doing sitting up?" she asked. "You're sick. Lie down and rest."  
"I feel fine," Puck protested. He reached out a hand toward her, quirked one eyebrow. "Help a baby daddy up?"

Quinn rolled her eyes, but couldn't quite keep her lips from quirking in a smile. Reflexively she reached out a hand, but then, remembering Blaine and Finn's reaction to touching her, yanked it back. Puck looked confused, but stood himself without a word.

"So," he asked, once he was fully upright. "Where we going? And why does my mouth taste like fish? Yech."

Quinn giggled a little. "Apparently there's some kind of water around here. We have to catch fish."

"Huh," Puck just shrugged. "Well, let's start searching, then."

It didn't take long to find the small pond. . .fifteen minutes at the most. Fifteen silent minutes, walking through the woods, with Noah PUckerman's gaze focused entirely on her. Quinn tried to ignore him, she really did, but she could feel her face heating up.

"Stop that," she said finally, her voice low.

"Stop what?" he asked. Teasingly, he began putting down his string. "Stop fishing? I thought that's what we came for."

"Stop looking at me like that," Quinn said. "You know I'm with Sam."

"Whatever," Puck said. "We know Sam's just a rebound. And a desperate attempt for you to become popular again. Newsflash, Quinn. Sam's not popular."

"Newsflash, Puck, I don't think anyone has to worry about popularity anymore."

That got him to shut up for a minute. Quinn just let out a long held breath. Fishing was really boring.

Puck had caught two fish (Quinn was still totally failing) before he spoke again. "Come on Quinn, Sam? Seriously? We had a baby together."

"That was a mistake, Puck," Quinn said sharply. "It wasn't romantic. It was a mistake. How many times do we have to go through this?"

"Quinn. . ."

"I'm tired of it, Puck. I'm tired of telling you no, and being in a relationship that takes so much work. It's easy with Sam."

"Quinn. . ."

"Don't Quinn me!"

"No, it's just. . .you have a bite."

"Oh," Quinn looked down at the line in her hand, that was jerking just a little bit. "Oh! What do I do?"

Puck grinned at that, reached out and took the line out of her hand. He quickly pulled it in, and unhooked the fish at the end. "There you go," he said, handing it back to her. As he did so, his hands brushed against hers. He looked down at it curiously.

"Huh," He said. "Your skin is hot."

Quinn stared down, at where their hands were still touching. She jerked back. "Don't!" she said.

"Don't what?"

"Blaine and Finn. . .it actually burned them!" She held her hand close to her body.

"Well, they're a bunch of pussies," Puck said. "I mean, you're pretty hot, but actually burning someone? That's ridiculous!"

"Just don't. . .don't touch me, okay?" Puck raised his hands non=threateningly. "Anything you say, princess."

Quinn just groaned. "Look, I think we have enough fish. Let's just head back."

Puck nodded amiably, picking up both the fish and the rods. They walked back in a companionable silence. Quinn was still feeling a little puzzled. Sure, Finn was far from the brightest crayon in the box, but he'd never been a complete wimp. And, from the way that Blaine always kept his arms completely covered, she had the definite sense that he'd endured some physical pain himself. Quinn was no stranger no razors in the shower, or a complete lack of self-worth. Why, then, did they pull their hands away from her, when Puck seemed perfectly fine?

When they arrived back with everyone, she realized with dismay that Finn and Blaine were awake again, huddled over Mike's still feverish body. Had they not trusted her? Didn't think she could handle anything on her own? Surprisingly, it was Finn who heard them first, turning around and gaping at them open-mouthed.

"Oh, Puck, there you are," he said, his eyes narrowing suspiciously as he saw Quinn. "So you're. . .you're feeling better now?

"Yeah, bro," Puck agreed, walking toward his friend. "You now. . .weak and kind of tired but not like. . .not like before. What's going on?"

Blaine was ignoring all of them, still staring down at Mike with a puzzled look on his face. Quinn walked over to his side.

"Hey, Quinn," he said softly.

"Why aren't you sleeping?" she demanded. Blaine just chuckled a little.

"Too much to do," he glanced up at her face, clearly identifying a guilty expression. "Thanks for helping," he said hurriedly. "Can you do me another favor?"

"Of course."

Blaine's eyes shifted from her face, and returned to his appraisal of Mike, who was currently unconscious – maybe just sleeping – and twisting around a little. "I know it's only around noon, but. . .does he _glow_?"

**A/N: What. . .Quinn and Puck? How did that get in there? Grrrr. . .**

**Next chapter: Thinking it's time for Puck's PoV, though I'm a little terrified of writing from his perspective, even his limited perspective. Gulp. Maybe I'll just go back to Finn. . .he was easy.**


	7. Engines and Bears and Busses, oh my!

**A/N: Phew. Longer chapter. Apologies. Also, Puck's voices. Apologies. Please don't be offended by anything in this chapter. I don't think Puck means it offensively, it's just the way he thinks.**

The way Puck saw it, everything made sense. Quinn had always been pretty hot – okay, super hot – and now she was even hotter. He'd always been a badass, and now he was invincible. Finn had always been dense, and now he had a concussion (okay, that one was kind of a stretch). Blaine was. . .okay, Puck didn't really know anything about the kid from Dalton.

It all made buckets of sense. Except for Mike. Because really, there was no f'ing reason that the kid should glow. Like one of those stupid rave sticks that his little sister liked so much. And sure, he'd bought her one at the circus, 'cuz she'd been begging so much, but then it had exploded all over his shirt, which now glowed in the dark. Which sucked. Because only girls liked things that glowed in the dark.

Which meant that it was going to be really hard to keep being friends with Mike if he seriously glowed.

That was what Puck thought. What Puck said was "huh."

"Well the good thing is we don't have to gather any more wood for the fire," Finn said. Everyone turned to look at him, confused. "I mean. . .we can just make Quinn sleep in the middle. Her body feels like a fire. And we can put Mike next to her, because if he glows in daylight, he's going to be really bright at night."

"Wow. . .Finn. . ." Quinn shook her head. "Just. . .wow."

"I thought it was a good idea." Finn sulked a little bit.

"Here's a better idea," Puck said, rubbing his hands together. "Let's eat. I'm starving. Where's the grub?"

Blaine chuckled at that, and pointed to a small pile of processed food. Puck's face fell. "You have got to be kidding me," he moaned. "I can't survive on all that processed shit. I need man food."

"Well, there's the fish you got," Finn said, glancing doubtfully at Blaine. And Puck did not miss that glance, oh no he did not. And he got that Finn was pissed at him, what with the whole kissing Rachel thing. He was pretty sure he got that. And sure, maybe they'd never fully repaired their friendship after the whole getting Quinn knocked up thing. But that look that Finn just gave Blaine. . .that was the best buddy look. That was the QB to the RB look. That look belonged to _him_.

"Sure," Blaine said. "We'll boil them for the broth, and then eat them up." He turned to smile at Quinn. And Puck knew that _smile_, oh yes he did. The was a full shit-eating grin. That was the smile he used when he wanted to get laid. And he could get that Sam was with Quinn (as long as he wasn't getting any) but this Dalton kid was sure not going to just walk in, smile, and get Puck's bromance _and_ Puck's girl. "Thanks for catching them, Quinn."

"You're welcome," she said with a slight blush.

"Whatever," Puck said. "_I_ did all the work, anyway."

"Then thank you. . .um. . ." Dalton gave him a sheepish grin. "Sorry. You practically saved my life yesterday, and I don't even know your name."

Well. Puck felt a little mollified. Because he had totally saved the kids life. So he reached out his hand. "Puck."

"I'm Blaine. I'd shake your hand, but. . ." he gestured toward his arm, still in a sling. Puck sniggered a little. Total pussy. As if a broken arm were any reason not to shake hands. Puck had broken his hand once, and he'd still scored a touchdown.

Just then, there was a strange, thundering noise coming from the forest. Puck frowned.

"What the hell is that?"

"It sounds like a stampede," Finn said helpfully.

"We're in the woods, moron," Puck pointed out. "Have you ever seen a bear stampede?"

Puck, because he was an awesome guy, and observant, and totally cared about his friends, noticed that Quinn had turned even paler. He reached out a put a hand gently on her shoulder. He could tell that her skin was radiating heat, but he still didn't get why the other two guys seemed so afraid of her.

Then again, he was seriously weirded out by Day-Glo Chang, and Blaine had been casually giving the guy a drink. So whatever.

"Blaine, if the animals sensed the radiation, would they. . ." Quinn's words broke off at the end. Blaine just shrugged.

"I don't know. But maybe. . .maybe we should try and get everyone on the bus."

Wait a minute. . .radiation. . .Puck didn't think he liked the sound of it. Radiation, he was pretty sure, was a bad thing. Except for in the cases of Spiderman, or some of the X-Men, or half a dozen other superheroes. . .actually, then again, maybe radiation wasn't such a bad thing after all.

He sure hoped he got super strength.

Or could fly.

He would call himself. . .the Invincible Jew. Or maybe The Ambadassador. Or the Hebrew Hero. Maybe he'd go simple and just be Puckzilla.

"Puck, come on and help!" Finn complained.

Oh, right. The stampede.

Quinn was dragging Brittney, both arms looped awkwardly under the taller girls arms. Finn had slung Rachel over his shoulder. And Blaine, the pansy from Dalton, was just grabbing water bottles.

"Why doesn't he help?" Puck asked, as he picked up Santana (because if he was only going to save one person, he was going to save the most smoking hot girl there. Except for Quinn. Right. Quinn.)

"He only has one brain, moron," Quinn scoffed, as she struggled to pull Brittany up the steps and into the bus.

"Hey, why didn't you guys put us on the bus before?" Puck asked. "We could have gone to the hospital." He thought that was a pretty good idea, so he really didn't get why everyone was rolling their eyes.

"Just. . .help us get everyone on the bus," Finn pleaded.

Puck noticed that Blaine stopped helping pretty soon, and just went around to the front of the bus, fiddling with something under the hood. He didn't mention anything, though, since it was clear that Quinn and Finn had joined sides with the prettyboy. For the first time, he wished Rachel were awake inside of mercifully quiet. She would have set them straight about the spy.

Things got a little awkward when he was trying to carry Mercedes. Because that girl had a _rack_, and could Puck help it if maybe his hands slipped a little bit? And was it _his_ fault that she woke up and glared at him and hissed something about chocolate thunder? And then tried ineffectually to kick him in the groin? And then he dropped her?

"Sorry," he muttered, and maybe. . .by _accident_. . .grabbed her boobs again.

Sweet. Best day ever.

He tried to get to Tina before Quinn did, but she glared at him with that "get back" and "I know what you're thinking" and "why did I ever sleep with you" look. Bummer. So he helped out Artie, because bros before hos, plus there was no way he was dragging freaky-glowing Mike Chang anywhere. Also, he was pretty sure that Sam was dead, though you wouldn't know it from the way Quinn kept fussing over him.

They were all lucky that Puck had woken up, because they had only just loaded everyone into the bus when the first deer broke out of the cover of the forest. Blaine bounded back onto the bus. "Quinn!" he shouted. Does it work now?"

Quinn left her position by Sam's side and ran to the front of the bus. She slid into the seat and turned the ignition. The engine turned over, but quickly died.

"I thought you were going to fix this thing!" Puck roared. Okay, he'd thought no such thing. But Blaine didn't know that.

The other boy just looked flustered. "I tried. . .I don't know. . .I don't really know anything about cars. Do you?"

Finn shook his head. Quinn let out a low moan of despair. There were now a dozen deer dashing through their little clearing, and the roar – the _stampede_ if Finn was right for once – was getting louder. Closer.

"Where' Kurt?' Puck asked. "Get the fairy to fix it, his dad owns a garage!"

Blaine's lips pursed, but he didn't say anything. Quinn did. "God, Puck, show a little sensitivity! Kurt's sick! Don't call him a fairy!"

Puck was about ready to respond to that when he looked out the window. And holy _fuck_ was that a _bear_?

"Screw this," Puck hissed. "I'm not going to die in this bus with a bunch of losers. Oh, and Quinn." He reached down, and hauled the gasping little homo into his arms. Huh. They looked like a nice little bridal picture. A _gay _bridal pic. Whatevs.

"Out of my way!" Puck said, shouldering past Finn and running down the stairs. Kurt was shaking in his arms. And gross, he was totally sweating. Puck set him down, standing, one hand grasping the back of his collar. With his free hand, he threw the hood open.

"Okay, Kurt, let's do this thing. How do we fix the bus?"

Kurt's teeth were chattering, and his skin was a totally weird mix of pink, red and white. Plus his hair was all over the place. Puck was pretty sure that Kurt hated when his hair got messed up – actually, scratch that, he was _sure_ that Puck hated it, because whenever he'd given the kid a slushie facial that had been the first thing he'd tried to fix.

"C-c-can't," Kurt chattered. Puck looked over his shoulder. Not that he was nervous, but, uh, _bear_. The deer had increased in numbers now, and the sound was almost deafening. And yeah, there was definitely a family of bears loping toward them.

"Yes you can, dammit!" Puck hissed. "I know you work in your dad's garage. Now Fix. The. Fucking. Bus." He slammed Kurt into the side of the bus, because Puck might not know a lot of things, but he knew that fear was a great motivator. Look at their football team. Beiste came into replace Tanaka, and she was fucking terrifying. Also, ugly.

Kurt didn't seem motivated, though. He just closed his eyes and breathed in more of those freaky, gaspy breaths. Puck frowned. Now he really wasn't sure what to do.

Until his was shoved aside by an angry little hobbit. Puck raised one eyebrow, because it was the freakin' Dalton pansy who had bowled into him, one shoulder down. It would have made for a pretty good tackle, actually, except that there was no wrap-up and the guy only weighed about twenty pounds. Give or take.

"Get back in the bus," the kid said through clenched teeth, as he forced one shoulder under Kurt's arm, keeping the sicker student standing.

"No way," Puck refused.

The kid turned to stare at him, and Puck could have sworn that his eyes were black. Except for the red, blood-shot rims. He remembered what Finn had told him about zombies.

"Get in the fucking bus!" Blaine was out of control. Even Puck could see that. He worried that the kid was going to turn and just chomp Kurt's head off. It probably wouldn't make a good snack, even for a zombie. Too much hair product.

"I'm not leaving him out here with you!" Puck retorted. He crossed his arms, flexed them threateningly. That's right, hobbit. Take a look at those guns.

Blaine ignored him, though, just whispered something in Kurt's ear. Then, a little louder, "You can do this. I believe in you. We'll do this together." Something low pitched again, and Kurt was breathing a little slower now.

"Puck, grab the fuel line. . .no, the thicker cable. . .over there."

It took maybe five minutes before Kurt was satisfied, sagging back into Blaine. The kid bit back a yelp, and Puck was 99% certain that both boys would have fallen to the ground if he hadn't swooped in to rescue Kurt. Because yeah, he'd just fixed the bus and he was awesome like that.

That was when he saw the wolves. Because the bears had been scary enough, but they'd mostly just ignored him. The wolves though. . .they were coming straight at them.

Puck was pretty sure that his radiation super power must be super speed, because he was back on the bus, Kurt still tightly clenched in his arms, within 2.5 seconds, tops. Blaine followed close behind

"Step on, Quinn!" Puck yelled, practically throwing his favorite 'mo into the first seat, and leaning forward.

The girl turned the key, and the engine sprang to life.

"Wait!" Finn gasped. "What about the puppies!"

Puck didn't have to smack him upside the head. Blaine did that for him, before collapsing back into a seat. Huh. Puck had to admit, maybe the gay little hobbit wasn't so bad. When he was satisfied that Quinn had taken them out of stampede zone and back onto the road he relaxed. Quinn had decided, for whatever reason, to take them back toward Ohio, and when nobody had protested, she'd just kept driving. Finn was sitting up with her, playing the role of hero and leader again, so Puck sat down across from Blaine, who had Kurt's head in his lap and was idly playing with his hair.

"Hey, um. . .good job out there," Puck said.

"Don't talk to me."

"Dude, I'm just trying to be friendly, chill out."

"You called Kurt a fairy," the boy said, turning around with angry eyes. "You dragged him out of the bus _knowing_ how sick he is. You. . .you _slammed_ him into the engine. . ."

"Yeah, well," Puck shrugged uncomfortably. "That's the best way to motivate me. I was just trying to. . ."

"You were scared," The boy said, still angry. "You were scared, so you took it out in a violent, aggressive way. That's all you bullies are. A bunch of scared little boys."

"Hey!" Puck put his hands up placatingly. "I'm not a bully."

Blaine raised on triangular eyebrow.

"I'm not!"

"Puck, don't lie," Quinn said sharply.

"Okay, maybe, sometimes," Puck said. "But just dumpster dives and slushie facials. And not to anyone on this bus. Not anymore."

Finn glanced back at them, concern on his face. "Don't fight," he said. "That's all in the past. Things are way different now. We need to get along."

Blaine sighed. "Finn's right," he said, but he wouldn't turn to look at Puck "Truce?"

"Truce," Puck agreed. He glanced over at Mike, who was emitting a soft, green low now that they were in the lower light of the bus. Seriously freaky. He reached out a hand to poke the kid when he noticed it.

His right hand was bright red, and blistered. As if he'd burnt it. Finn, who had apparently abandoned Quinn's side (probably after she'd continually told him to leave) noticed it, too.

"Dude," he said, "what happened to your hand?"

They both glanced over at Quinn, who was focused on the road. Because they both knew where the burns had come from.

**A/N: Well, Blaine and Finn hit it off, but doesn't seem like that will be the case with him and Puck. Thinking it will be another Finn chapter. Or maybe Artie. . .it's about time for him to recover. Yes. . .an Artie chapter should do quite nicely. . .**


	8. The Cabin

**A/N: Haha. . .just got the review asking if there were any other people alive just before the very chapter in which other people appear. Giggle, giggle. Well spotted! We'll just assume that the kids were on a super deserted road. In Pennsylvania. And that's why nobody stopped by. Also, they weren't there long. . .two nights? Maybe? So now we're at three days past the bombing. Sheesh.**

**Also: Yup. Meant that Blaine only had one arm, not brain. Good catch. And yeah, put in the invincible thing at the beginning, but he shouldn't have realized it until a bit later. This is why proofreading would do me good! (not to mention all of the typos, spelling errors, and grammatical issues. . .whoops!)**

**But hey. . .fast updates over perfect writing, right? **

**P.S. Thanks to all of you reading – the alerts keep going up. Double thanks to you loyal reviews. You provide an added motivation to keep writing. **

It was a familiar dream. He was eight years old, happily singing along to the Beatles from the passenger seat of his mom's Volvo. Fresh from soccer practice, he had a scrape on one knee, and grass stains on the others. Clumps of mud were still stuck between the spikes of his cleats. His mom glanced over to smile at him, just for a second, and then. . .

The semi that was coming toward them swerved at the last minute, and they just kept driving home.

That was it, short and simple. And yet Artie always woke up with tears in his eyes. Just one second, one miniscule change, and his life would have been so different. So much better. He didn't want to open his eyes, and wake up from the dream. His whole body ached. His heart hurt, and his throat was parched. His legs were tingling as though they'd fallen asleep. His stomach clenched, empty and hungry. And he felt weak. Even opening his eyes was an ordeal.

"Why are we stopping?"

Artie wondered why Puck's harsh voice was appearing in his dreams. Or in his bedroom, for that matter. He tried to grab his sheets, to wrap himself up, but there was nothing there.

"That was my fault," an unfamiliar voice said, sounding guilty. "I didn't think about gas. We should have stopped for gas."

"Stop it with the hero complex," Quinn's soft voice interrupted, sounding steely and hard. Artie's mouth quirked a little. This was the strangest dream he'd ever had. . ."I was the one driving. I should have noticed that we were out of gas. This is my fault."

"Well, it's not that bad," Finn said, trying as ever to be a mediator. "I mean. . .there's a cottage right there. Maybe someone in there can help us."

"Dude, you know if there's anyone there, they're totally zombies," Puck said in reply.

Artie gave up and opened his eyes. He was on a bus, and he wondered why, when it all came back to him. . .

He'd woken up on the grass outside. He was flat on his back. He must have been flung out his wheelchair somehow. . .his legs were all scraped up, bruised, but he couldn't feel anything. Of course. Brit had bandaged him up, and brought him his wheelchair. He'd helped the kid from Dalton – Blaine – start a fire. He'd eaten Cheetos for dinner. . .and then he just remembered feeling really, really awful.

Shaking his head, trying to rid it of weird, half-remembered fever dreams, Artie pushed himself up by his elbows. He was on the bus again. . .someone must have carried him, because he sure didn't remember walking. He looked around curiously.

Everyone was laid out across seats, most of them sweating and twisting anxiously. Quinn was up front, standing just behind the driver's seat, next to Finn. Puck and Blaine were up there, too. Frowning, Artie looked at the seat across frome me.

"Holy Jesus Mary and Joseph!"

"Artie?"

His standing friends were beside him in a moment, Quinn staying back a little ways. Artie just raised on finger to point at Mike Chang, who seemed to be doing at least a little better than his other friends.

"Is he. . .glowing?"

"Yeah, about that. . ." Finn nervously rubbed the back of his head. Artie sat up a little straighter. He waited patiently. But apparently Finn didn't have anything else to say. Artie sighed.

"Would someone just please tell me what is going on here? He swung his legs around so that they swung in the aisle, instead of just being stuck behind him. Quinn stared at him.

"There was a bomb," Blaine explained. "More than one. And we think. . .that is, Finn and I think. . .that the radiation poisoning caused all of you to get sick. And apparently changed. . ."

"I'm invincible," Puck said proudly, although Artie noticed that he was holding one hand behind his back. "And Quinn is. . .er. . .hot. And Mike glows.

Artie frowned, trying to digest all of this. Quinn leaned forward, however, causing Blaine to choke out a little and dark forward. Finn grabbed Puck by the shirt and pulled him away from her as well.

"Artie did you just. . ." Quinn blinked at him, all big hazel eyes and pursed lips. "did you just move your legs?"

"Don't be ridiculous," Artie said. "You know I can't. . ."

But then he looked down at his legs. Because they were still tingling. And he hadn't felt anything in them. . .not even in twinge. . .in almost ten years. He lifted one leg up. . .just the tiniest bit, because it winded him even more than before, and then dropped it again. He stared up at everyone.

"I can feel my legs," he said. He knew his bottom lip was trembling, but he didn't care. Finn reached out and awkwardly pat him on the shoulder. Artie barely noticed again. He could feel his legs again!

When he tried to stand, he fell back, of course. After years of not being used, his muscles had weakened. But Artie felt something he hadn't felt in a long, long time. . .hope.

Across the aisle Mike Chang licked his lips and rolled over. Artie felt like giggling.

"Okay, well. . ." Blaine shifted a little bit uncomfortably. "I guess we'd better get everyone off the bus. It gets pretty cold at night. . ."

"I'll go check the cabin!" Finn said, before leaping off the bus. Artie just grinned wider. He tapped his feet. . .

"Where's Britt?" he asked abruptly. "I want to show her. Britt? Britt!"

Quinn back at him, her expression still unreadable. "Brittany's still sick," she said. "Almost everyone is, actually."

"Oh," Artie frowned. "But everyone's getting better, right?"

"Right," Quinn said, that impossible expression still on her face. "Better."

Finn bounded back up with the stairs with all the unbridled enthusiasm of a golden retriever. "There's nobody home," he said hurriedly. But there's a weird closet filled with food, and a fireplace. And Blaine. . .chicken noodle soup!"

Blaine's face broke into a smile. "Okay," he said. "Let's get everyone moving, then."

"Sweet," Puck said. "I call Santana."

"I've got Britt," Quinn said.

"Dibs on Rachel!" Finn sang.

"And I will start the soup!" Blaine finished.

Artie just watched as they all began loading their arms with the feverish bodies of his friends.

"Um. . .guys," he said awkwardly. "Guys, don't, uh, forget about me. Please."

Because he really, really did not want to be stuck alone on the bus with the glowing Mike Chang.

"But dude, you can feel your legs again," Puck said. "Why don't you just walk off the bus?"

"I can't walk," Artie said, and he couldn't keep the grin from sliding across his face as he said "yet."

Puck just shrugged, slung Santana over one shoulder, and then came back and heaved Artie over the other. Artie gasped as all the air went flying out of his abdomen in one fell swoop. This was definitely _not_ what he was asking for.

He grabbed Puck tight around the others boy's chest, trying desperately to catch his breath. Puck was staggering like a drunken sailor under the double weight of the two people he was carrying. Please don't let him drop me, Artie prayed.

Artie couldn't see the cabin until he was deposited (rather roughly, but all in one piece) onto a shabby, torn up old couch. Cats, Artie thought as he wrinkled his nose and sneezed. It had to be a cat house. He was _allergic_ to cats. Puck hurried right back out the door to grab some of the other still-sick students. Artie pulled himself off the couch, and over to the fire. He was determined to be somewhat helpful. He found that with his new ability to kind of. . .slither. . .his legs, he was able to make much better crawling progress than before. Once again, he found it hard to restrain a smile.

It was an old, traditional, wood-burning fireplace, but Artie was relieved to see a gas lighter just to the side of the chimney, which was already loaded with wood. He crawled forward to open the floo. In the kitchen, he could hear Blaine lightly humming.

It didn't take long to get the fire started with the lighter, although it did fizzle out on him twice before finally catching. By the time he was finished, Finn, Quinn, and Puck had succeeded in getting everyone inside. Finn immediately ran into the kitchen, while Quinn sat herself beside Sam. Artie turned to face them. He pulled his knees up to his chest with considerable effort (because he could!).

"He's still unconscious?"

"Yeah," Quinn said, tenderly brushing back a strand of hair. From the kitchen, they could hear Finn singing, and Blaine beatboxing along. Quinn suddenly gasped, and jerked her hand back.

"Carefuly," Puck said drolly. "Don't want to set the kid on fire."

Artie was alarmed to see tears well up in Quinn's eyes. He'd never seen her cry. Sure, her eyes had welled up a bit last year, when she'd been pregnant, but he'd never seen her actually crying. Yet, before his disbelieving eyes, one perfect, crystalline tear slid down her sculpted cheek.

"Quinn," Artie said softly. "What wrong?"

"I can't. . .I can't. . ." Quinn sniffed twice, brushed away the tear, and brought her chin up in a regal posture. "It's nothing," she said. Artie knew she was lying. . .he wasn't stupid. But she clearly didn't want to talk about it, and he wasn't going to force the issue.

Blaine and Finn walked back into the room. Blaine was carrying a large pot with steam, while Finn balanced a series of bowls, spoons, glasses, and a gallon of water. While Blaine held the pot steady, Finn quickly ladled out portions of soup for Quinn, Puck, and Artie.

"Thanks," Quinn said, sounding pleasantly surprised.

"No prob," Finn responded. While they ate, Finn poured water into a glass, which he handed to Blaine. The two boys then went through the room, coaxing their sick friends into sipping down broth and water.

"Wow," Artie said, a bit shell-shocked by everything. "I can't believe Finn didn't dig right in."

"He's grown up," Quinn said, her eyes misting over a bit.

"Yeah, whatevs," Puck said with a huff, though Artie noted that he did go over to help his friends. Blaine smiled gratefully, handed his empty glass of water to Puck, and sat down. He leaned against a couch with a sigh, and closed his eyes.

"So. . .uh. . .where's everyone else?" Artie finally asked. Quinn shrugged.

"We don't know," she said. "We passed a few cars while we were driving, but nobody stopped."

"We think zombies were driving the cars," Puck said, from over where he was holding a glass to Santana's chapped lips. Zombies? Artie raised one eyebrow.

He wanted to ask what the plan was, but before he got a chance, the door was flung open, and a burly shape filled it up, blotting out what little sunlight was still existant outside the door.

"Why is there a bus parked in my front door and who the _hell_ are you kids?"

**A/N: Aw, that was a fairly happy chapter. Very little angst. Good for Artie. Next chapter Mike wakes up, they meet a new buddy, and Brittany takes a turn for the worse. In other words. . .much more angst. ):**

**BTDubbs: I was planning on explaining why Mr. Schue was missing, but now I'm just bored with that miny, miny side plot. So let's just assume his body was flung out the window and he was strangled by his tie. Or something.**

**If you like him, assume he's just taking a lovely stroll with Shelby. Or whatever.**


	9. Colors

**A/N: Sorry for the delay in updates. I had to drive 13 hours to get back to school. Gag me with a pitchfork. Anyway, enjoy, and as always, thanks for the reviews (This story is now rated 2****nd**** in number of alerts for any story I've written, and 5****th**** for favorites – thanks so much!)**

Waking up felt like crawling out of a dark tunnel, and Santana felt completely dirty when she opened her eyes. She was pretty sure that she smelled, too, and she could practically feel the grease in her hair.

"Ew," she said, trademark sneer carefully in place. Nobody answered. Santana frowned, and ignoring the vague ache behind her eyes, forced herself into an upright sitting position.

She was on some kind of gross, disgusting ratty sofa. She could actually see spring poking out of it, and that was just downright pathetic. Get some duct tape, or something.

Brittany was on a couch against the wall. Her skin was flushed, but she seemed to be shivering a little. Santana limped over, and adjusted the afghan covering her friend. Mercedes was laid out in a reclining chair, her breath coming in fast, gaspy wheezes. Tina had apparently drawn the short straw and was sleeping on the floor, next to

"Holy fuck, are you glowing?"

Mike Chang opened one eye to look at her from beneath black bangs. He sighed, and put a finger to his lips.

Santana rolled her eyes, but tried again in a lower voice.

"Holy fuck, are you glowing?"

Mike shrugged, looking mildly apologetic. Santana was pretty sure that her chin had fallen to the ground.

"It's a long story," Mike finally said. "Sam, Kurt, and Rachel are in the bedroom. They're still sick. I think everyone else is in the kitchen. Santana didn't really know what to say to that, and Mike didn't make any move from his position on the floor. Santana frowned, taking a deeper look at him. She must still be kind of sick. . .not only did his skin emit a faint, greenish phosphorescene (what, she paid attention in bio, not a big deal) but there was another glow, sort of. . .orangish. . .around that. She looked at the three sleeping girls. Nope, no freaky glows.

Santana tried to shrug it off. She had no particular desire to see Fishlips, Manhands, or Ladyface, so she headed into the kitchen.

"Well, we can't take the bus, the gas mileage is horrible," Quinn was saying, just as Santana rounded the door. A sudden wave of dizziness ran through her as a half dozen eyes turned to greet her. It wasn't the unanimous motion, however. . .it was the strange, dizzying blend of colors.

Santana was far from a good Catholic schoolgirl, but her dad made her go to mass every week. It didn't mean she believed it, but she'd heard the stories of angels with their haloes. Each one of her friends (and the weird, pervy looking dude by the oven) was surrounded by a halo.

Santana blinked several times in rapid succession, trying to get rid of the foggy, fuzzy spheres of light, but they didn't go anywhere. Finn was still surrounded by that a baby blue fog. Puck was a deeper blue, and the hot Dalton boy was sheathed in a _very_ becoming forest green. . .except around his left arm, where the light fragmented (okay, so she really like science, suck it!) and became a murky, sickly yellow.

"What's wrong with your arm?" she asked.

"Santana, baby, looking good!" Puck said appreciatively, at the same time that McHottie mumbled "It's just broken."

"Are you feeling better?" Finn asked. Santana raised one eyebrow.

"Well, I'm walking and talking, Frankenteen, what does that tell you?" she asked. Finn's face lit up like a little kid at Christmas.

"Awesome!" he exclaimed, and if he hopped any higher he was going straight through the roof. "I'm going ot go check on Rachel, see if she's feeling better, too. And, um. . .everyone else."  
"Good idea," said McHottie. "They should probably have something to drink, too."

The two boys headed out together. Quinn just sighed, and turned back to address the pervster.

"It really would be great if you would lend us those two vans," she said. "I'm not sure the bus would make it all the way to Lima."

"Hellz, no!" Santana exclaimed. "Last I remember, we were going to the city. Why are we turning around to go back to Dumpsville, U.S.A.?"

"Because of the bombs," said another voice, and when Santana turned around, she was shocked to see Artie (amber and bronze hues) sitting in a chair at the table.

"What happened to your chair, Wheels?" she asked. Artie's face broke into a huge grin, and he leaned forward.

"A miracle," he said. Quinn snorted. Santana frowned. Bombs? She remembered the bus going flying. . .remembered grabbing all of the food off it, and then. . .just a haze of pain and misery. . .she jerked her mind back to the present. So there had been bombs, and then she'd gotten sick, and now. .

"_Mierda! Pinche culo_. . ." Santana shook her head. Because a bomb going off, followed by sickness. . . "Did we all get radiation poisoning?" Quinn looked a little pained at that statement.

"That's what Blaine thinks."

"Who the hell is Blaine?" Santana asked.

"Kurt's friend," Artie said, clearly trying to be helpful. "The guy from Dalton. Remember, he was on the bus with us."

Oh. . .now Santana remembered. Gay, but with an ass she'd _love_ to tap. Right now, though, all she wanted was information.

"Sounds like this Blaine and I need to have a talk," Santana said. As she left, she was pretty sure that she heard Artie say "he's gay. . ."

She walked back through the den, where Finn was dutifully kneeling down and cajoling Brittany into drinking a cup of water. No Blaine, although Finn did turn to give her a dippy grin, and Mike gave a cheerful wave from his position on the floor. Right. To the bedroom, then. As she turned the corner, she was not surprised to see Sam lying in bed, while Kurt was awkwardly arranged on pillows on the ground. Of course Quinn would pull her Queen Bee status and get her boyfriend the best seat in the house. Though, now that she thought about it, Santana wasn't sure that she wanted to know what that mattress had been through.

Blaine, sure enough, was sitting beside Kurt, half a bottle of water beside him. He was leaning against the wall, eyes closed. The sickly green color around his broken arm pulsed weakly.

"Radiation poisoning, huh?" Santana asked, crossing her arms. She knew that when she crossed them, it totally pushed her boobs up and made her look super hot. Sure, Blaine might _claim_ to be gay, but he was super hot, and she'd always liked the chase.

"I think so. I'm afraid so."

He kept his eyes closed. Santana frowned, and plunked herself down beside him. "So what. . .we're all going to get cancer and die?"

"I don't know," he said.

Santana didn't say anything for a few minutes. She just watched Kurt and Sam. Sam looked perfectly peaceful and Kurt. . .she frowned. . .Kurt was slowly developing a strange, purple glow.

"Do you see that?" she asked. Blaine finally opened one eye, red-rimmed and exhausted looking.

"What?"

She pointed at Kurt. "That. . .that purple glow."

Both eyes were open now. Blaine looked at the sick boy first, and then back to her. "Are you sure you're feeling okay?"

Santana bit her lip. She could feel nerves rising within her, and forced them down. WWMD. What would Madonna do. . .unfortunately, she had no idea in this case. Okay then. . .WWSSD. Answer: Sue Sylvester would take charge and make sure she (and the prettiest, most talented Cheerios) made it out alive.

"What's wrong with your arm?" she asked.

"I told you," Blaine said, and let his head fall back against the wall with a thump. "It's broken."  
"No," Santana said. "You're sick. You have a fever, an infection. Your arm is _bad_, and if you don't take care of it, you're going to get blood poisoning and die."

Blaine sighed, but none of his features changed. Santana smirked a little. He already knew all of that. Of course. She knew he wasn't as dumb as he looked.

"How do you know? He asked hollowly.

"Radiation mutates genes, right?" Santana wasn't really asking. She was talking to herself, trying to remember the brief unit from biology. "That's why it causes cancer so often. Mutations that can't stop. But what if it. . .what if it did something else to us?"

"That's what I was thinking," Blaine admitted. "Everyone's changed. Puck can't feel pain. Artie can feel his legs. Quinn. . ." his words trailed off.

"What about you?" Santana asked.

"Nothing. Finn, neither. We didn't get sick, and it seems that we didn't. . .mutate, either. No X-Men for us."

"Hmm," Santana nodded. "Can I see your arm?"

"No."

"Come on. You let me see it to bind it up. You know that I know first aid."

"No."  
"Stop being a douche canoe. If you don't let me see it, I"ll just punch you, and you'll pass out from the pain, and I'll see it anyway. I'm just trying to be nice."

Blaine stared at her. "You're a total bitch," he said. Santana just smiled. With a long-suffering sigh, the Dalton kid pulled off the glove that he'd been wearing over his left hand. Santana wasn't surprised. . .she'd known it was bad. That sick color couldn't mean anything else. And, sure enough, his fingers had turned a strange, blue-black color, and angry red lines radiated up the back of his palm. Blaine looked steadfastly ahead, his jaw set. It made him look almost angry. Made him look super sexy.

"Put it back on," Santana said. "That makes me want to puke."

Blaine pulled it back on. "Promise me you won't tell anyone."

Santana considered this. On the one hand, if nobody found out. . .if Blaine just kept hiding it. . .he would die. She was sure of it. Then again, it didn't seem like there was a hospital anywhere around, or anything to be done.

"I see colors," she said. "Around people. That's how I knew about your hand. You're this sexy, fuckable green, but your arm is. . .kinda gross looking."

Blaine raised one eyebrow, and laughed a little. "You know that I'm gay, right?"

Santana had never been into labels. She also believed firmly in the Kinsey sliding scale of sexuality. After all, she and Brittany liked to have fun, and she and Puck liked to have fun. Nothing wrong with a little experimentation. She leaned forward, and pressed her lips firmly to his.

Not surprisingly, Blaine kissed back. He was pretty good, too, Santana mused, as their mouths moved together. Forceful but still considerate. Breath tasted like fish, though. He opened his mouth a little, and she darted her tongue in and out. He nibbled on her lip, and _damn, girl_, Santana was pretty sure she'd wet her panties a little. She pulled back. Always leave them wanting more.

"Gay or straight, boy, I could blow your _mind_," she said, and left the room. A little extra swagger.

Yeah, she probably had a massive shit-eating grin on her face. Radiation poisoning or not, sickness or not, she still had it.

Until she walked back into the den, and saw everyone clustered around Brittany, who was gasping in short, painful-sounding breaths. Finn had his hands up defensively.

"I was just giving her the water, and she went crazy," he said.

Artie was – holy _jesucristo_ – kneeling, beside Brittany, tenderly pushing hair back from her face. Puck was holding her head straight. Quinn, meanwhile, was standing way back. Ice Queen Bitch, Santana thought.

"Shhh, c'mon Britt," Artie said. "Just breathe. Come on, that's a good girl, just simple, little breaths."

Brittany's eyes were open, and staring straight at Artie. Santana could practically see the fear in them, as she struggled for breath.

"What's going on?" Santana asked. "What's happening to her?"

"I don't know," Finn said. "This didn't. . .everybody else just. . .woke up. . ."

"Artie?" Brittany choked.

"Yeah, I'm right here, babe," Artie said encouragingly. "Don't talk, just breathe. You're going to be fine."

"Artie. . .did you lose your wheelchair?"

"No. . .no, baby, I don't need it anymore. I can feel my legs."

"Oh," Brittany gasped a little, and then began to smile. A small bubble – red, Santana realized with horror – appeared on her lips. Artie's smile shuddered a little, but he reached out and brushed it away. The back of his hand was stained red. "That's good. . .that's really. . ."

"Hey," somebody was hissing at her, but Santana ignored it, the same way she ignored all the dorks at losers at McKinley. She was too focused on her best friend. . .why did McKinley's science program suck so much? What were you supposed to _do_, to fix someone. . .

"Hey!"

Santana spun around, to see Quinn (pearl grey, or dove grey, or whatever it was called) just inches from her face. Santana screwed up her nose, because it was like standing next to a furnace, and fuck, Quinn's mutation _really_ must suck balls.

"Here's some aspirin," she said, holding her hand out. Aspirin. . .of course. . .was supposed to lower a fever. Santana reached out to grab it, but Quinn took a step back. Frowning, Santana held out her hand, palm up. Quinn dropped the pills, and then stepped back again, seeming to fade into the shadows. Weirdo.

Santana pushed past Finn, sending the tall guy toppling to the floor. She knelt down beside Artie, and using only her hands (Sue Sylvester required that all her Cheerios have fists of steel) ground the aspirin down to relatively small chunks, and dropped them into the water. "Move it, Wheels," she said, and shoulder him out of the way, too.

"San?" Brittany asked, and there was that terrifying bubble again. Santana ignored the sick feeling in the pit of her stomach (Champions know no fear – another Sue Sylvester teaching moment).

"Shh," She said. "You need to drink this, okay, Britt-Britt?"

The other girl nodded, and opened her mouth obediently. Santana poured a few drops in. Brittany struggled, but swallowed it, and opened her mouth again. It took almost half an hour to get her to drink it all – a half hour of pure agony, with Puck holding Britt's hand, and Artie taking his prior position, and petting her hair, and Santana praying that her friend wouldn't choke. Near the end, Brittany's gasps slowed down, and her eyes closed.

"No. . ." Artie whispered, and his face was like a painting of somebody grieving.

"No," Santana said, dropping the bottle. "She's just sleeping. She's not. . .she's just asleep."

"Thank God," Artie said, dropping his head down to the edge of the couch. Santana turned around. She took Britt's hand away from Puck – he released it willingly enough – and linked their pinkies together.

"That was intense," Finn said. "I didn't know. . ."

"Yeah, fat lot of use you were," Santana said acidly. "Just sat there like a lump. Useless."

"Santana," Quinn said reproachfully. Santana ignored her old friend, though, for at just that minute, the pervy old dude from the kitchen entered the room again.

"I think it's about time you kids go," he said. " I don't want to catch whatever sickness she has."

"IT's radiation poisoning, you old coot," Santana said with a sneer. "You can't just catch it. And you probably already have it, anyway."

The man glared at her.

"Santana, that's our _host_," Quinn hissed. "Try to use some manners."

The old man just stared at her for a moment (perv), before shaking his head.

"You've got till the end of the week," he said. "That's two days. Then I want you gone. All of y'all."

He turned and clomped his way back into the kitchen.

"Good going, Lopez," Puck said. "Now we'll be stuck on the bus again."

"Running from the zombies," Finn agreed.

Quinn rolled her eyes. Santana just let her head fall back against the couch again, relishing Brittany's breath against the back of her neck. So they had to leave in a week. Big deal. At least they were all still alive.

Although, as her mind went back to Brittany's episode, to Mercedes, Rachel, Tina, and Kurt, all still sweating and silent, to that dirty yellow spot in Blaine's coloring, she wondered for how long that would last.

**A/N: Dude, Santana is a bitch. And a 'ho. Oh well, I kinda like her. Did not anticipate the Santana/Blaine moment. DRAMA? Unlikely. . .Blaine is still capital G gay, don't worry.**

**Coming up: The Return of Finchel! Quinn and Santana have a heart to heart! Kurt wakes up! And somebody knocks at death's door. . .**

**Also. . .Mike continues to glow! (Yay)**


	10. Soup

**A/N: Thanks once again for the reviews. They are always so very much appreciated, and inspire me to keep writing. My apologies for today's chap: it's definitely FAR from one of my favorites. But I felt like the last two chaps were kind of choppy, and featured far too little Finn/Quinn, so I threw this one in to kind of tie everything together.**

Elias liked living alone. That was why he did it, after all. He'd never really liked people – not since that skanky bitch Petunia stole his crayons back in pre-K. That had been enough to prove to him that the world was filled with selfish, conniving, dickwads. So as soon as he'd made enough money (apparently said dickwads loved reading romance novels – go figure) he'd bought himself a cabin in the Pennsylvania woods and moved in. He liked his ratty old furniture, the fireplace that heated up the den, and the complete lack of a tv. He liked the isolation. He liked that the woods were filled with animals, ripe for hunting. He liked that no solicitors came to his house, clamoring for him to buy this or enroll in that. He liked the collection of old cars slowly accumulating in the empty lot next to him.

He knew when the bombs went off – was pretty sure that everyone in America knew, because they were loud. The ground shook. And the animals freaked out. All in all, he figured that the bombs were a godsend: as Dickens would have said, they were sure to "decrease the surplus population."

Plus, hunting had gotten super easy, what with all of the animals suddenly running in the same direction, their puny minds screaming FEAR at him.

The only downside, as far as Elias could see, was the radiation poisoning, if that's what it was. Huge chunks of his hair had fallen out (including all of the hair on his right forearm). He'd been sick for two days straight, subsisting only on the water that he always kept saved for emergencies and left-over lentil soup. But then he'd gotten better, and gone outside to go hunting again.

When he'd returned, there had been a huge yellow bus parked directly in his front door. He frowned as he walked toward the house, because everything was kind of humming, the same way that the packs of animals had started humming when the bomb went off. It was kind of pleasant, actually.

The sun had nearly set when he went up his porch, and the closer he got to his cabin, the louder the humming got. It vibrated through his head, short-long pulses. He frowned. It was distinctly less pleasant as he got closer.

He opened the door and stepped in. He glanced around. There were about a dozen kids – looked to be somewhere between middle school and college, though Elias sure didn't know a thing about kids. Most of them looked sick. Pale, sweaty, shaking. Five of them looked okay, though, give or take, and were pressing glasses of water to the other kids faces. The humming was the loudest from those kids. He pressed one hand to his forehead, wishing that the buzzing would go away.

"Why is there a bus parked in the front yard, and who the hell are you kids?" he asked.

A skinny, short kid stood up, his arm in an awkward sling. He was radiating FEAR/SICKNESS/EXHAUSTION and looked about as done in as any of the kids lying down. Before he could even open his mouth to speak, Elias shook his head and pointed to the ground.

"Not you," he said gruffly. "I don't want to hear a word out of your mouth." He looked at the other four – the mohawked kid, Blondie, Squints, and a tall beast of a kid. He pointed at the tall kid. "You. Explain."

He liked this one, because he was simple. The complicated harmonies of the other kids' emotions was nonexistent. This kid just radiated pure and simple HOPE, and Elias might not like people all that much, but hopefulness he could dig.

"Um, hi, sir," the kid said. "I'm Finn." He then proceeded to introduce every other kid, pointing them out in the turn. The conscious ones waved hello, while the sick kids just moaned a little bit. Elias pressed a hand to his forehead. "We're really sorry," the kid – Finn – said. "We didn't know anyone was here, and we ran out of gas, and food."

"Also, we're worried about zombies," Puck said. Quinn glared at him.

"There's no such thing," she said sharply.

Elias wasn't about to contradict her. Though, in his mind, everyone over the age of twenty was a zombie, obsessed with work, reputation, and money. These kids weren't there yet, but they would be soon enough. Or would have been, if it weren't for the bombs.

He was sure that those bombs had changed the outside world quite a bit. He'd hoped they wouldn't have an effect on him.

"Well, you can't stay here," he said.

"Please, sir," Finn said, imploringly. "Just for a few days. It seems like everyone's getting better. Just a few days, and then we'll be out of your hair."

"We're heading to Ohio," Puck said, clearly trying to be helpful.

"You could come with us," Quinn suggested. "It must be lonely, out here by yourself."

Elias rolled his eyes. The absolute last thing that he wanted to do with these crackheads was go with them anywhere. He looked at them again, more critically. They all looke exhausted, even Finn. They'd probably just mostly be sleeping if he let them stay. Plus, he'd been preparing for the Apocalypse since his first Harlequin had been published, and had more than enough supplies to last him his lifetime, and still give the kids a week or so of a free ride.

He really though they'd mostly just sleep. That's why he'd agreed to let them stay.

It was instantly clear that they weren't going to just conk out, though. The sick, curly-haired kid quickly took over. He ordered Finn and Puck to move some of the kids to the bedroom, made sure everyone was arranged properly. Quinn immediately went to the bathroom. Elias tried to escape to his kitchen, only to discover that his chicken broth and pots had been commandeered. He frowned. Minutes later, Quinn flounced back in, and proceeded to fill a gallon of water, and opening another container of Swanson.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Elias asked. Quinn just quirked an eyebrow at him and said threateningly –

"Don't touch me."

And hot damn, but the pure steely determination and contained anguish that rolled off her at that thought nearly sent Elias reeling backward. He clamped hands over both his ears, and slumped into a chair.

When he was able to focus again, the squinty kid with glasses was sitting at the table with him, calmly sipping at a cup of soup. Since when did kids eat so much? Elias wasn't so certain about his supplies anymore, and would have said something if it weren't for the hum of COMFORTLOVE coming from his den and bedroom.

"Where are the rest of your little buddies?" he asked instead.

Squinty – right, _Artie_ – glanced up at him and smiled. "Puck's trying to get everyone who's sick to eat some broth. Finn is trying to get them to drink. Blaine is giving them cool towels, and I think Quinn is checking out your cars."

"Hmph," Elias muttered. He glanced at the huge bowl of soup that the kid was slowly shoveling away. "You going to eat all of that?"

Over the course of the next twenty-four hours, Elias watched the kids in amazement. They took shifts throughout the night so that all of the sick kids were continually being kept hydrated. Finn and Blaine always went together, and Artie, Quinn, and Puck. He watched in amazement as the circles under their eyes got darker, and their gestures a little shakier. It was a shame, really, kids being forced to be caretakers like this. Elias shrugged his shoulders and went outside to sleep in his hammock. Whatever. It wasn't his problem.

When he went into the kitchen in the morning, Quinn was standing at the stove, humming a little song as she made Malt O Meal. Elias glanced in the pot. A glob of butter slowly dissolved in the middle. His mouth watered.

"Make enough for me?" he asked. Quinn turned to him, and gave a restrained smile.

"Of course," she said.

Elias tried to stay out of the way of the kids. The humming was irritating, and he really hated people. Really, he did. He went fishing and brought back trout, which Quinn cooked up, despite the moaning of all the boys. The weird, glowing kid ate lunch with them, before going to lie down with the sickos again.

"I know you want us gone by the end of the week," Quinn said during lunch. "But I don't really know how we'll fill up the bus tank."

Elias grunted. Quinn glanced at Finn, before continuing on.

"I was wondering if we could borrow two of your vans."

Elias raised one eyebrow at that. "You gonna return'em, sweetcheeks?"

Quinn flushed, but there was no EMBARRASSMENT emanating from her – just that same steely resolve. "Probably not," she said.

"Quinn, I don't think that's a good idea," Finn said slowly. "Do we really want to split everyone up?"

"Well, we can't take the bus, the gas mileage is horrible," Quinn said. Elias considered, still chewing his trout (he'd always liked fresh fish). Just then, a smoking piece of ass walked into the room. She was barely buzzing, and Elias found that he liked it a helluva lot better than the raucous zings coming from everyone else. He was nearly bowled over by the sudden explosion of JOYHOPE from the kids around the table, and had to steady himself on the oven.

The new girl stared at them each slowly, her face unreadable, before finally resting on Blaine. He, for his part, was focused on cutting his fish up into ever tinier pieces. Elias wasn't sure that he'd actually eaten any.

"What's wrong with your arm?" she asked.

Puck said "Santana, baby, looking good!"

Blaine, meanwhile, choked out GUILT before saying "It's just broken."

Elias couldn't take it any more, because all of the kids were just screaming out feelings at him. He had to leave the room, had to somehow get out. Covering his ears with both hands, he pushed his way through the screen door, and stood heaving just outside.

He tried to go for a walk. The further he got from the house, the easier it was to walk around. He took in deep, steadying breaths. He knew what the kids thought – they'd been discussing it over breakfast. Radiation poisoning, and mutated genes. So maybe that was it. . .maybe he was hearing/feeling things because of those bombs. He shook his head.

He didn't like people. He really didn't, and he didn't like the kids and the way they'd invaded his house. He wasn't a bad guy, he really didn't think he was. He just wanted to be left alone. He honestly didn't know how he was going to stand six more days of those kids just screaming at him nonstop. It wasn't so bad when it was just joy and hope, but when they were scared or angry. . .

At just that moment a sudden blast shot through his head of intense sorrow and fear. He groaned, and grabbed at his head. It was gone as soon as it had come, but left in it's place a dull throbbing – a steady bass below everything else. Coming from his house.

Maybe he could just leave – ditch the cabin, let them have everything. It would be easy. Except that he'd spent years stockpiling, and he was pretty certain that nobody else had thought to save up toilet paper in case of atomic warfare, or canned goods for an apocalypse. He was pretty sure that none of his neighbors had gallons upon gallons of water in their basements. He didn't like people, and he didn't like those kids, and he sure as hell wasn't going to die for them.

As he kept walking toward his cabin, that dull throbbing sound grew louder and louder. Maybe one of them had died – that was all he could figure. But when he entered the kitchen it suddenly disappeared, replaced by calming RELIEF. He let out a breath, and walked into the den, where all the kids were gathered around the cute blonde girl in the cheerleading uniform. He looked at her critically – she sure didn't look good.

"I think it's about time you kids go," he said. "I don't want to catch whatever sickness she has."

"It's radiation poisoning, you old coot," The new girl said. "You can't just catch it. And you proably already have it, anyway."

Elias stared at her, because how did she _know_? She just stared back at him, defiant, and Elias realized with relief that she didn't know anything, that she was just some spoiled rich kid from out of state who was scared and bitchy.

"Santana, that's our _host_," Quinn hissed. "Try to use some manners."

Elias glanced at the blonde girl. He still felt the same thing from her, that same determination. No emotion. She kept it in, closed off. He realized, with a start, that he might actually be beginning to like her.

Ridiculous. He didn't like people. He shook his head.

"You've got 'til the end of the week," he said. "Not a full week. . .until the end of Saturday. That's two days. Then I want you gone. All of y'all."

He went back to the hammock. He went back to the hammock and he put his feet up and he closed his eyes. He heard the kids leave the house – heard the jumble of emotions, heard the roar of one of his vans. Opened on eye to look. Sighed. And walked back inside.

Quinn looked up at him with a smile, from her near permanent position near the stovetop. Elias' face fell, though if he had to admit it, he was glad that she was the one still there, with her firm control on her feelings. Also, her ability to cook really delicious food.

"The boys went to raid a convenience store," she said. "They felt bad about stealing all your food."

Elias raised one eybrow and stuck his finger into the soup that she was stirring. Quinn frowned at him, and his the back of his hand sharply with her spoon.

"Okay," she said with a smile. "Blaine felt bad. I think Finn and Puck just went with to make sure he got junk food."

Elias nodded. He could feel Santana's presence in the next room over, and Mike Chang. Soft rolls of love. If they could keep themselves in check like this he wouldn't have to kick them out. But even as he was thinking that (not considering it, no, not really) another wash of FEAR hit.

"Someone else woke up," he said. Qunn looked at him quizzically.

A minute later there was a soft murmur of voices in the den, and then a skinny, girly-looking boy walked into the kitchen. The waves of fear were emanating off him.

"Quinn?" he asked shakily. "Where is everyone? Is everyone else okay?"

"Hey, hon," Quinn said. She handed the spoon to Elias, and walked over to engulf the boy in a gentle hug. Some of the fear abated. Elias took a sip of the soup. It was green. "Everyone's still okay. The boys just went to get food."

The boy nodded uncertainly. "Oh. . ." He glanced over Quinn's shoulder. Elias scowled at him. Maybe if he seemed less friendly they'd all do a better job at leaving him alone. The kid did cower a little, so maybe it would work out okay.

"I'm sorry," Quinn said, stepping back and reclaiming her spoon. "Elias, this is Kurt. Kurt, this is Elias. He's been kind enough to host us."

Kurt held out a hand, and gave Elias a watery smile. "Hello. Thank you," he said. Elias grunted, and pulled out a bowl. The kid gave off waves of DISAPPOINTMENT. Elias' stomach clenched. As if the other kids weren't bad enough, this one was fucking _projecting_ his feelings everyone. Projectile emotional vomit. Elias shook his head.

"I'll get some bowls," he said.

Within ten minutes the table was set. Elias had to tell off the Kurt kid when he started folding the napkins all fancy like. Elias was no pansy pants, and he wasn't going to eat using a napkin that was all. . .decorated. The kid scoffed a little at that, and projectile emoted some more. Elias frowned.

Quinn was just ladling out soup when the familiar rumble of one his trucks sounded outside. Elias girded himself, closing his eyes. He really didn't want to abandon the delicious-smelling soup, but he wasn't sure that he could handle the riot of kids, either.

Finn and Puck came in first, their arms laden down with food. Quinn greeted them warmly, and they both seemed pleased to see Kurt up and around. Several beats passed as they put things away. Kurt was fairly bouncing on his heels.

"Where's. . ."

Just then Blaine walked in. Elias glanced at him. The kid was empty. Completely empty. Nothing was coming off him. He let out a slow breath. He looked like shit, but at least he'd finally calmed down. He'd been almost as bad as Kurt.

Just as Elias was processing this, Kurt bitchslapped him with such intense JOY that he dropped his head heavily onto the table. It would probably bruise later, but for now he couldn't feel anything except the invasion of his own senses.

He was still staring at the table when there was a sudden pained gasp. He didn't see the curly-haired boy turn a sickly shade of green at Kurt embraced him with a gleeful "Blaine!" He didn't see his eyes roll up in his head or his legs go suddenly weak. He didn't see the panicked expressions that appeared on Finn and Kurt's faces. He didn't see the two boys hit the ground in a tangle of limbs.

All he saw was the fine grain of his wood table, and then a sudden jolt of TERROR to his heart and everything went black.

**A/N: Coming soon: the Return of Finchel! Quinn and Santana have a heart to heart! And Death is sneaking up on our poor, unsuspecting Glee Clubbers. . .**


	11. Reunion

**A/N: Good eyes, to the reviewer who noted that Quinn was able to hug Kurt. Could this be important? Hmmmm. . .and to all of you worried about Blaine. . .be afraid. Be very afraid. **

**Thanks, as ever for the reviews, and sorry that the updates are fewer and further between. School is back in session. . .gark**

There was nothing she could do. She saw it all happening – the way Kurt's face fell when Finn and Puck entered the room, the way he lit up, smile shining brighter than the sun when Blaine walked in. She knew that Blaine wasn't well – knew that his arm hurt, that he was tired and stressed. So when Kurt practically flew from his seat to hurtle across to room, to wrap his arms around his best friend – she knew.

Blaine's eyes rolled up in his head, for one brief, terrifying moment showing nothing but white, before collapsing to the ground. Kurt, his limbs tangled together with the other boy, went down, too.

She saw, and there was nothing she could do.

She couldn't reach out a hand to help steady them, couldn't wrap her own arms around Blaine to support his weight. She couldn't pick them up when they were on the ground, couldn't reach out to feel for a pulse. All she could do was turn around and fill a glass with water from the sink.

"Ohmygod ohmygod ohmygod," Kurt was repeating over and over again. He pulled himself free, and put a hand gently, ever so gently, on Blaine's face. "What's wrong with him? What's wrong?"

"Here," Quinn said, handing him the glass of water she'd just poured. Their fingers brushed for just the briefest of seconds. Kurt, in his panic, must not have noticed, because he didn't react at all. He held the glass uncertainly for a moment.

"Here," Finn said gruffly. He set his bag of groceries on the table, a knelt down beside the two smaller boys. He took the glass from Kurt's trembling hands, and lifted Blaine's head so that it was cradled on his thigh. He dribbled a little water over the other boy's lips. The response was almost instantaneous. Blaine coughed a little, a spluttering sound deep in his throat, and turned his head to the side. Slowly, black eyelashes fluttered against pale skin – like butterflies, Quinn though sadly, and wondered if she would ever be able to hold one herself. Hazel eyes opened.

"Hey, Finn," he said wryly.

"Hey, yourself," Finn said, his face breaking into a smile. Quinn's heart broke a little. After everything, Finn could still smile like a kid on Christmas morning – all full of hope, and rainbows, and unicorns that shat out sparkling diamonds.

Blaine shook his head, and ran one hand through his hair. Glancing to the side, his eyes fell on Kurt, and Quinn was glad to see that his eyes sparkled, too. "Kurt!" he said excitedly. "You're up! Are you okay?"

"Am I okay?" Kurt asked, a little of that diva attitude entering his tone again. "I'm not the one who just fainted! What's going on?"

"Nothing," Blaine shrugged nonchalantly. Gratefully, he took the glass of water from Finn's hand and took several careful sips. "I'm perfectly fine. Other than the broken arm, obviously."  
"Oh," Kurt glanced at the arm. "I'm so sorry. . .did I touch it?"

"It's fine," Blaine said. He handed the glass back to Finn. "Thanks, man."

It was only then that Quinn noticed Elias, head down on the table. She walked over, and stood, hovering a little over him. Should she put a hand to his shoulder? Could she?

"I got it," Puck said. He walked past her, and shook the old man. He, for his part, just raised on hand and waved at them miserably. Quinn and Puck exchanged a glance, shrugged their shoulders. Oh well, whatever.

"I think you should lie down," Kurt said. He stood up, reached out a hand for Blaine, and pulled the other boy to his feet.

"I'm fine," Blaine protested. Kurt frowned, narrowing his eyes a little.

"You are not fine," he spat out, and Quinn almost giggled. It was almost the exact same tone that he used with his father, whenever Burt tried to eat something unhealthy. She'd heard the tone at the wedding, when Mr. Hummel had tried to eat two pieces of cake, and had gotten caught. The laugh caught in her throat. Mr. Hummel. . .was he even still alive?

"There's too much to do, still," Blaine protested. Kurt, clearly, was not hearing any of this. He tucked Blaine's good arm beneath his own, and began propelling the older boy down the hallway.

"You are lying down and that is _that_," he said as they left the room.

"I'm going to get the rest of the food out of the car," Finn said, and exited.

"Hey," Puck nudged her in the side. Quinn almost jumped back, and turned to glare at him.

"Don't touch me," she hissed. "You _know_ what happens when you touch me."

"So?" Puck rolled his eyes. "I'm a badass, Quinn. A little burn isn't going to take out the Puckster. Besides, it doesn't even hurt."

"Just because you don't feel pain doesn't mean you aren't hurt," Quinn said. "Look at your hand, Puck. I'm dangerous."

"Yeah, because you're so hot," Puck leered. Quinn sniffed, and turned her back on him. A moment later she had to jerk back again, when he placed a hand on her upper arm.

"Stop it!" she said, and was ashamed to hear the sob in her voice.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing," she spat. "You. You're wrong. You're irritating, and dirty, and. . ."

"It's going to be okay," Puck said. Quinn looked at him – tried to look at him, really, because there were tears in her eyes and everything was swimming in front of her. She was reminded, suddenly, of those good moments from the previous year. . .before Beth was born. The good moments, when Puck was trying to man up, when he was trying to be positive and helpful. . .he really was beautiful. . .

And it really was pointless to even think this way. She brushed away the tears with the back of her hand. She'd learned to stop pitying herself when she was pregnant. She was Quinn Fabray, and if life handed her lemons, she sure as hell was making profit from the lemonade. And if life had decided that she wasn't going to be able to touch anyone, ever again, well. . .she'd. . .well. . .

"The van worked okay?"

Puck looked surprised by the change in topic, but nodded his head. "Yeah," he said. "I mean, it was a soccer mom van, but it drove just like my mom's. Took out the glass in the convenience store window easily enough."

Quinn rolled her eyes. Of course. Send Puck to do a job, and some kind of vandalism was guaranteed to take place. Some things never changed, atomic bomb or not.

"I'm going to check it out myself," she said. Puck raised an eyebrow, as if to ask if she trusted him. The answer, of course, was no.

She should have just walked through the den to the front door. But as soon as she left the kitchen she saw Santana, glaring at her, dark eyes practically tearing a hole through her body. And Quinn knew that Santana could be a bitch – actually enjoyed being a bitch – and she just didn't have the energy to deal with it just then. And really, where did Santana get the energy to be pissed off, anyway? It seemed like everyone was tired now, all the time. . .

Not that it mattered. She'd just walk past the bedroom and head out the side door – leave Elias alone in the kitchen in the meantime. There was something wrong with him, she was pretty sure. And, okay, obviously there was something wrong with any guy who chose to live all by himself in the middle of the Pennsylvania woods, but she thought. . .he really seemed to react when they talked about radiation poisoning. And he seemed to be almost in pain when there were too many people together. . .

She peeked into the bedroom. She wasn't surprised to see Blaine curled up on the floor, on top of the pillows that Kurt had been sleeping on earlier. Fancy clothes and moisturing routines aside, when Kurt decided he wanted something, he always got it. Blaines eyes were closed, and he looked the most peaceful that Quinn had ever seen him. Which wasn't saying much, since she'd pretty much met him when he was bruised and bleeding. Kurt was curled up right behind him, one arm wrapped securely around the other boys' waist, a look of pure bliss on his face.

"Hey," Quinn said softly. Kurt glanced over at her.

"Hey," he said.

"Hey," A third voice said. Shocked, Quinn glanced over to the corner of the room. Rachel was there, sitting up, her arms crossed almost angrily across her chest.

"Could somebody explain to me what is going on? Where precisely are we?"

Kurt glanced down nervously at Blaine, but the other boy seemed to be completely out of it. Quinn smiled wearily.

"Hey, Rachel, how are you feeling?"

"Not at my best," Rachel admitted. "However, for once I feel that my own physical well-being is second to that of current conditions. Where are we?"

"We're in a cabin," Quinn said. "We're restocking our supplies so we can head back to Lima."

Rachel considered this for a moment, before nodding her head decisively. "Normally, I would demand that we continue to New York, in order to achieve my dream of stardom, and to win Nationals. However, having survived a bombing, I agree that it might be a better idea to return to Ohio. Now then. . .where's Finn?"

Quinn didn't even have a chance to answer before seven feet of boy pushed her aside. In his haste, Finn didn't even seem to notice the heat emanating from the body, as he pulled Rachel into a tight hug. Quinn had always thought the two of them looked ridiculous together – Finn almost seven feet tall, Rachel barely clearing five. She would have fit easily under his armpit, could have walked around with her hair smelling like boy's deodorant. She'd laughed at them before, with Santana, with Brittany – at big, stupid Finn and little, irritating Rachel.

Her hand on the doorknob, she didn't feel much like laughing, right then. Finn and Rachel hugging, Kurt with his arm around Blaine. . .she stumbled back to the kitchen, could reel off everyone else as she passed by the den, where Mike still lay next to Tina, and Artie still held Brittany's hand. Mercedes sat alone, and how was that fair, Quinn wondered. How was it fair that Mercedes, who'd been one of the few people to see past Quinn's ice princess façade, who befriended gays and cheerleaders, jocks and nerds, had to be alone?

How was it far that _she_ had to be alone?

She didn't want to cry, really, really didn't want to cry, because really, what good would that do? Tears couldn't fix anything, and there was always the possibility that it could be fixed. The possibility that a doctor in Lima – okay, who was she kidding, a doctor in Cincinnati might have a cure. The possibility that the entire world hadn't been destroyed in the last few days, that maybe disaster had only struck in New York and Pennsylvania. The possibility that

Her thoughts were derailed as a hand closed tightly around her bicep.

"Shit!" Santana gasped, pulling her hand away. "What is wrong with you?"

"What do you want, Santana?" Quinn asked wearily. Santana just stared at her. Quinn would never have admitted it back at McKinley – it would have destroyed her reputation – but the she'd always been intimidated by the Hispanic girl. The way she owned her sexuality, didn't care what anyone else thought. She admired those qualities.

"I saw you talking to Puck."

Quinn was startled. "So?"

"You know he's a skank. You know he just wants to bang you and then dump you."

Quinn raised one eyebrow. "You're angry at me about Puck?"

Santana didn't say anything, just narrowed her eyes and crossed her arms.

"Don't worry," Quinn said with a sharp laugh. "I made that mistake once. Won't make it again. Besides, as you've just noticed, I'm not really an option for Puck right now."

Santana's face softened, as much as it ever could. "That's what happened to you? That. . .that heat?"

Quinn sighed, nodded, tried to look away. But then. . .curiosity. She turned back.

"I see. . .I see colors," Santana said. "Like halos around people."  
Quinn quirked one eyebrow.

"Yours is. . .is grey," Santana said slowly. "Like you don't want to let anyone see what's going on. But when you're with Puck there's this reddish tinge to it. And when you're upset – like now – it's kind of blue."

Quinn opened her mouth. Then she shut it. Then she opened it again. What was she supposed to say to that? Santana was looking at her expectantly, as though there were something to be said.

Just then, a resounding crash from the kitchen. Puck ran out, his hands held high above his head.

"I didn't do it!" he said. "I swear! It wasn't me!"

Quinn ran past him. Elias was standing in the middle of the kitchen, his hands plastered over his ears. He was muttering under his breath "stop it stop it stop it stop it stop it!"

"What's wrong?" Quinn ran to his side, lifted her hands. Put them down, because what was she supposed to do, anyway? Make it all worse. "Elias! Elias!"

The man shuddered once, before dropping his hands. He looked up at her, his brown eyes wide and filled with unshed tears. "It's gone," he said softly. Quinn just frowned. What was he talking about. "I can't. . .hear him. . .it's gone. . ."

Before Quinn could press him to explain, before she could decide if she even _wanted_ to understand what he was talking about, there was a commotion from outside.

"Help!" Kurt practically screamed. "It's Blaine. . .he won't. . .he won't wake up!"

**A/N: Next chapter: The Glee Clubbers are faced with their first real death. Somebody becomes a hero, somebody becomes a murderer, and the kids new mutations are put to the test. Plus. . .massive amounts of angst!**


	12. Burns

**A/N: Wow, thanks for all the awesome reviews! Completely overwhelmed, here! This is now my #1 alerted story, #2 favorited, and top ten for reviews. So glad you all like it! And, or, are horribly disgusted by it. :) Also, I will remember in the future. . .want lots of reviews? Torture Blaine!**

**J/K. Integrity of the story, and all that. Enjoy!**

People thought he was stupid, and maybe he was. He always got the lowest scores in math, after all, and it was super hard to learn all of the plays for football, which might be part of the reason their team always lost. He couldn't learn Spanish, no matter how many extra tutoring sessions Mr. Schue had given him, and sometimes (okay, a lot of the time) Finn didn't think things through. So maybe he was stupid, but that didn't mean that he didn't see things, didn't notice them. And, having been the only healthy member of the Glee club for the past week, he'd noticed a lot.

He hadn't said anything to Blaine, because he didn't want to disturb their newfound friendship, and because Kurt had always been such a prickly guy, and Finn wasn't entirely sure that all gay guys weren't the same. So he hadn't said anything, but he'd noticed that Blaine seemed to be getting sicker. He saw that Brittany had problems breathing, and that Mercedes had developed a weird cough deep in her chest. He knew that Tina had stopped shaking, and even if he didn't know what that meant, he knew that it was happening.

He knew that Rachel was getting better, even though there was nothing outward to show. He just. . .knew, and maybe that was because he still felt something for her. Maybe he did still love her, no matter all of the pain she'd caused him.

Then again, maybe not.

But when she'd woken up, and thrown her arms around him, and he'd smelled just the slightest remainder of coconut in her hair, he'd thought that it was an almost definite maybe.

"Hi, Finn," she squeaked, from somewhere down by his armpit.

"Hi," he said. It was super hard to talk past the huge blob of _something_ that had gotten stuck in his chest. And then Rachel was crying, and he was kind of crying, too, he thought. And then there was another pair of arms around both of them, and somebody was rubbing snot against his arm which was kind of super gross, but kind of nice, too. Maybe if Finn were smart, he'd have known how that was possible, but it wasn't.

"Kurt!" Rachel seemed overjoyed to see the other boy, and the hugging commenced anew, except that Finn stood back this time, because the two midgets kept elbowing him in the chest, and it kind of hurt. So he stepped back, and that was when he noticed it.

Blaine, just lying there, cold and pale. Blaine, who wasn't a heavy sleeper, and Finn knew that, too, because every time the fever had gotten ahold of someone, it had been Blaine who woke up. Because twice Finn had fallen asleep when he was supposed to be giving out water, and when he'd woken up, Blaine had just taken over. Kurt wouldn't know – Kurt couldn't know – but Finn did. Maybe he was stupid, but he _knew_ that Blaine shouldn't be asleep right then, not with all of Rachel and Kurt's vocal athletics.

So he went over to his friend, and he kneeled down, and put out one hand. A quick thought shot through his head (zombies!) but he ignored it. He poked Blaine twice in the side. No response. He tried shaking the other boys' shoulder. No response. He tried what his mom always did when he refused to get up in the morning: pinching cheeks and pulling until the skin was stained bright red. Still nothing.

"Um. . .Finn. . ."

When he turned around, Rachel was staring at him with a bewildered look on her face. "I am aware that I was the one recently sick, but are you sure that you're feeling well?"

"Yeah," Finn nodded. "I mean, I'm kind of hungry, but I'm usually hungry anyway. . .but that's not the point."

"Why are you trying to wake Blaine up?" Kurt asked crossly. "I know that all football players are Neanderthals, but honestly, Finn, I expected a little more out of you!"

"Yeah, it's just. . ." Finn shook his head. "Well. . .watch."

So he did what Burt had a tendency to do when he didn't wake up (Finn had always wondered whether his stepdad had done the same thing to Kurt – then he'd realized that he couldn't imagine a world in which Kurt wasn't awake an hour before his dad, busy doing his hair). He slapped Blaine once, hard across the face.

"Finn!" Rachel gasped in horror.

Maybe Finn had been right, though. Maybe Burt had bitchslapped Kurt at some point, because he seemed to get it. Kurt's hand flew to his mouth, and his eyes got huge.

"Ohmygod," he whispered. Before anybody could say anything else to him, though, he ran out of the room, practically screaming.

The result was instant confusion. Everybody was up and staring at him, confusion across their faces.

"Then just let the dude sleep, if he doesn't want to wake up," Puck said.

"That doesn't make sense," Artie said. "Blaine wasn't even sick!"

Quinn, Finn, noticed, didn't say anything. She just stood at the door with a queasy look on her face. It was kind of the same expression as the one she'd worn when she told him she was pregnant. Not good.

"Blaine is sick," Santana said, but without her normal sneer. "He's dying."

"What?"

Finn raised his hands to cover his ears, because really, Kurt's voice was reaching the decibel level that he was pretty sure was intended only for dogs.

"Just leave him alone," Santana said. "He made his choice. He's not stupid."

On the one hand, Finn saw her point. Blaine _had_ to have known he was getting worse. And he'd chosen not to do anything about it. On the other hand. . .well, on the other hand it just wasn't right.

"How do you know that he's dying?" Mike asked, in a rather reasonable tone. In answer, Santana didn't say anything. She just pat Brittany once, gently on the shoulder, and stood up. She arched one eyebrow at Kurt, as if daring him to do anything, and walked into the bedroom. Everyone followed.

When Santana knelt down next to Blaine, Finn made sure that he crowded up as close as possible. He was, after all, the leader. And though Finn had no illusions as to his own intelligence, he knew what happened to the Glee Club when there wasn't anyone around to direct them. So he would take charge. He had to.

Santana pulled off the glove that Blaine was wearing on his left hand. Finn had to try really, really hard not to vomit when she did.

The other boy's hand was dark and bruised looking. The skin was stained a dark purple, like a bruise and was puffed up like overripe fruit. As Santana continued to peel away the sling and began tearing at the shirtsleeve, it only got worse. Until they got to the bone itself.

Then Finn did have to shove his way to his feet and out the door. He ran outside, hunched over, and fell to his knees. That was the grossest thing he ever saw. A shard of bone, sticking out of Blaine's arm, some kind of yellow-green pus all around it, flecks of black and red and. . .he heaved again. Closed his eyes. Shuddered.

He wanted his mom.

Or Mr. Schue, or Mr. Hummel. . .just. . .an adult, who would take care of all this, because it was too much. He'd thought it was bad, finding Lauren's body, but at least no one really knew her. He'd thought it had been bad, all of his friends shaking from fever, but at least they'd started getting better. He'd thought it was bad, driving through nearly deserted countryside, seeing only a few other cars, and countless stopped vehicles, but at least their bus had been moving. But now. . .

Blaine was going to die. Finn didn't know a lot about medicine, but he knew that you weren't supposed to have green stuff oozing out of your body, and he knew a person's fingers shouldn't be black and dead looking. It looked like the start of a zombie movie, only in the movies the people weren't your friends, and there was always a cure around the corner.

Somebody put a gentle hand on his back. "Are you okay?"

Rachel.

And maybe she wasn't his mom, or an adult, or any more prepared to deal with this than he was, but he was suddenly really, super glad that she was there. So he stood up, wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand, and pulled her into a hug.

"I'm scared," he admitted. She hugged him closer.

"Me, too," she whispered. "What do we do?"

Finn didn't have an answer. The way he saw it, there wasn't really anything they _could_ do, and since Grilled Cheesus had already helped him out once that week, he didn't think there was much hope in turning to Him again. Which meant they had to figure something out themselves.

"Come on," he said, and slid his arm down to encircle her waist (and, hey, he totally got to touch one of her boobs while he was doing it! Awesome! Not the time, Finn. . .). They walked back in together. He was not surprised to see that Artie and Mike had left the bedroom. Both boys were sitting beside their girlfriends, their faces serious and sad. He was a little surprised to see Puck leaving the kitchen, a massive knife in his hands.

"Whoa, what are you doing?" Finn asked.

"Dude doesn't need an arm to live," Puck said with a shrug. "So if that arm is killing him, we just got to get rid of it."

"Are you _insane_?" Rachel asked. "You can't just cut off someone's arm! They'll die! There's infection, and blood loss, and shock, and. . ."

"You got a better idea?" Puck asked. "Because I'm all ears, sweetheart."

"Yes, I have a better idea," Rachel said, putting her hands on her hips. "Don't kill Kurt's friend!"

"Guys," Finn said, his voice low and soft, because he thought he just might have the glimmering of an idea. Maybe Puck wasn't entirely off. . . "Stop fighting. That's not going to help anyone."

Rachel was still glaring, but Puck just shrugged his shoulders and reached out a hand. "Jew truce?" Rachel sniffed and marched ahead of them back to the bedroom.

By this point, Santana had peeled off Blaine's entire shirt, and he lay on the ground, pale and lifeless. But Finn saw what Puck had been talking about. . .his left arm was dark and bruised, the skin shiny like it was stretched out. But above the break, the bruising settlted down, until there were just thin red lines leading from the top of his bicep to his shoulder. The rest of him looked. . .well, normal. Skinny, not like football player normal, but at least like not-zombie normal.

"How did you know it was his arm?" Quinn was asking. Santana rolled her eyes.

"Please," she said. "His arm was in a sling. Didn't take a genius."

"I didn't even know he was sick," Puck admitted as he entered the room.

"I thought he was coming down with. . .whatever we had," Quinn said. "A delayed reaction. How did you know it was his arm?"

"Okay," Santana sighed. "I see. . .like. . .haloes around people. And Blaine's looked, I dunno, _sick_, but just around his arm."

"You see auras?" Rachel asked with one eyebrow raised almost to her hairline. She leaned over to whisper to Finn, "that's new."

"Yes," Santana said. "I see auras, Midget. And I wish I didn't, because when I look at you all I see is this obnoxious, neon explosion."

"San. . ." Puck frowned and shook his head.

"Besides," Santana admitted. "I might. . .kind of. . .like science. I volunteer at the hospital, okay?"

In all honesty, Finn didn't think that was okay. If he'd been hurt, he sure didn't want to have to deal with Santana giving him water. But if she did like science, and if she was, like, a junior nurse. . .

"Santana, what would happen if we cut off his arm?"

Santana laughed. "Gee, I don't know. Blood loss, infection, shock, multiple organ failure. . .should I keep going? That's a really, really bad idea."

"Yeah," Finn frowned, because there was this idea, it was just. . .he looked at Puck. "Hey, man, remember that movie we watched? With all the knights and the swords?"

"Yeah," Puck nodded. "Blood, Guts, and Glory. That movie was sweet."

"Do you remember what they did when King Bart got his legs cut off?"

"They tied him to his horse, and he never told anyone," Puck said. "Dude was a BAMF."

"No, I mean, before that." Since Puck clearly wasn't going to remember, Finn turned back to Santana. "I know it was just a movie, but when he lost his legs and was bleeding, they took a hot poker and just. . .like. . .burned him. Could we do that to Blaine?"

"Burn him?" Kurt looked up from his position at Blaine's right side. "Seriously, Finn? He's already dying and you want to do something worse to him?"

Santana, however, appeared to be considering this. "Actually. . .we have antibiotics now, and sterile operating rooms, so my hospital doesn't cauterize wounds anymore. . .but I think it might work. . ." she shook her head. "Except that we don't have anything that we could keep hot long enough. Everything would get too cool."

Finn bit his lip, because here was where things got dicey. His eyes shifted, a little, and he saw the horrified look on Quinn's face. She knew. She got it.

The cheerleader backed away, put her hands up, and started silently shaking her head.

"Ohmygod, what, Quinn?" Kurt asked. When she kept backing away, he stood up and marched straight toward her. "What?"

She turned to flee, and Kurt grabbed her hand, pulling her back. Finn gasped.

"Do you know how we can save Blaine? Because if you do, you'd better tell us," Kurt said fiercely, his eyes boring into hers. Finn glanced at their hands. Kurt still tightly grasped her hand, and Finn thought. . .oh, _nasty_. . .there might be smoke rising from it.

"Let me go!" Quinn said, twisting desperately.

"No!" Kurt pleaded. "You can't just let him die!"

Finn jumped over Blaine, and yanked Kurt back. The smaller boy stumbled once, but caught himself on the wall. He turned around to glare at Finn. Behind him, Quinn was sobbing, gently clenching and unclenching her fist.

"What the _hell_, Finn?" Kurt screamed. "Doesn't anybody _care_?"

"Kurt," Rachel said slowly. "Look at your hand."

Everybody's eyes followed the same motion, glancing down at Kurt's hand, which was a fiery red, already blistering. Finn swallowed thickly. More pussy, oozy stuff. Gross.

"What. . . what. . ." It might have been the first time Finn had ever heard his step-brother at a loss for words.

"That's my 'mo!" Puck said proudly. "Didn't even flinch!"

"I burn people, Kurt," Quinn said angrily. "Okay? That's why everyone was looking at me. That's what Finn wants me to do. I burned you, and he wants me to. . .to. . ." she shook her head.

Kurt was still staring at his hand. "I didn't even feel it. . ."

"Yes!" Puck pumped an arm in the air. "We are superhero brothers!" he exclaimed. "The Painless Predators!"

"No," Kurt shook his head. "I didn't feel _anything_."

"No heat?" Puck asked.

Kurt shook his head.

Finn didn't really get it, but what he did get was that Quinn could totally catherize, or cauterine, or whatever it was, Blaine's shoulder. He didn't have to die.

"Rachel, take Kurt to the bathroom," he said. "Fix his hand. Quinn. You have to do this."

She shook her head. "I can't, Finn. I can't. . ."

He nodded. "Yes, you can. You _have_ to. If you don't, Quinn, and you could have. . .it's the same as killing him. You _have_ to."

He glanced down at Blaine. They could do this, he saw now. They could. Santana could tell them where the sickness ended, and then they could cut through the arm, and Quinn could burn it closed. They could do this.

"Maybe," Santana was nodding, her lips pursed. She knelt down, pointed at a spot on Blaine's arm. "If we popped out his joint here, we could saw through without hitting any bone. It's still really dangerous. I don't like it."

Finn didn't think anyone liked it. They were a bunch of high school kids, they shouldn't be performing amputations in the middle of the woods. But as he stared down at Blaine's face. . .the stubble on his jaw, the wild curls that had escaped from the gel years ago. . .he just saw a kid. A kid who deserved a chance to live.

"Okay," Finn nodded decisively. "Puck, you ready?"

"Me?" Puck looked surprised. He glanced back at Quinn. "I don't. . .I mean. . .what if I. . .I've never. . ."

Finn sighed. He cut the turkey for Thanksgiving dinner. He butchered the chickens. He didn't know anything about people's bodies, but he knew how to find a joint a pop it out. He paused for a moment. Did he really want to do this? He saw Quinn's side, suddenly. . .to willingly, and knowingly hurt another person. . .and if they messed up, they really _would_ be killing him. . .he took a deep breath. He was the leader. And sometimes leaders had to do super shitty things.

"Okay," Finn said. "I'll do it. Puck, you'll have to hold him down."

Puck nodded, relief flooding his face. "I'll go get Artie to help," he said. Finn took a deep breath, and picked up the knife. Right, then.

"No," It was Kurt, surprisingly, who said that. The boy walked in, his face still pale, his hand swaddled in gauze. "Not with a butcher's knife. It will take too long."  
"I think Elias has a saw outside," Quinn said faintly. Rachel glanced at Finn, and then left.

"Fuck," Kurt whispered, and Finn was pretty sure that was the first time he'd heard the other boy swear. Almost in a daze, Kurt walked over to his friend, and knelt down. He ran one hand gently over Blaine's face. "You're going to be okay, you hear me?" One tear fell. Finn squirmed. It was kind of weird, watching a boy be all touchy-feely with another boy. But it was Kurt, and. . .he thought, maybe, that it was actually kind of nice.

"Are we really going to do this?" Quinn asked, coming to stand by his side. Finn looked at her, but he couldn't say anything, because he thought that if he opened his mouth, he might just vomit again. But he nodded, trying to look sure. It probably didn't work, though, because Quinn looked just as scared as before.

Rachel walked back in with the saw in one hand, and antibacterial soap in the other. Wordlessly, she doused the saw, and wiped it off with a rag. Finn took it. He thought they should do something else with it, somehow make it cleaner, but he didn't know what, and as he looked at his friends, he thought they didn't know, either.

"Ready?" Puck walked in with Artie, and knelt down to grab Blaine's chest. Artie, crawling in, sat on Blaine's legs. Kurt clutched the right hand. Finn took a deep breath.

The lights went out.

**A/N: So everybody must use their new mutations to help out. And yet. . .not nearly as cool as mutations in superhero comics. Poor Finn. . .Poor Quinn. . .super poor Blaine.**

**Coming up: A character dies! (next chapter, for realz. . .it was going to be this chapter, but then it was getting soooooo long) Rachel discovers how she's been changed! And the Glee Clubbers get back on the bus to Lima**


	13. Courage

**A/N: Shorter chapter (really, just the end of yesterday's chapter). So, yes. You're all going to hate me after this. I can already tell. . .I promise to put up another chapter tomorrow if nobody, ahem, "cuts a bitch."**

The weird thing about glowing was that, when the lights went out, he didn't even notice. Okay, admittedly, that wasn't the weirdest thing about glowing. But it was definitely up there. Mike didn't even realize that they'd lost electricity. He was too focused on Mercedes' suddenly rapid, constricted breathing.

"Hey," he whispered, tapping her on the face. "Calm down. It's okay."

Her eyes opened, and she stared at him tearfully. "Just breathe," Mike assured her. "In and out, nice and slow." She nodded, trembling a little, and tried to do as he asked. All that happened was that her breath came in shocked little shudders. Mike was about to go back into the bedroom (even though it meant that he'd probably have to look at the Dalton kids' nasty arm) when Kurt came barreling into the room.

That was when he noticed that it was kind of dark, because he couldn't even tell it was Kurt, at first. But as the boy came closer, an eerie green light cast over his face, making his features distinguishable.

"Mike!" Kurt gasped. "We need you!"

Might as well say it right, Mike thought. Nobody ever needed him. They needed his dancing or, in this case, his weirdo glowing powers. Nobody needed him. Except for Tina, and maybe, right now, Mercedes.

"I don't know, Kurt," he said, biting his lip. "Mercedes seems really sick."

"Blaine is _dying_," Kurt insisted. "Mercy can wait a few hours. The rest of us got better, and she will, too."

Mike wasn't so sure about that. After all, Brittany still hadn't gotten better, and she'd had that freaky episode. Tina was maybe, just maybe, getting better, though Mike felt the need to knock on wood before saying that out loud. And Mercedes definitely wasn't getting better. In fact, it seemed like she was getting worse.

Kurt, however, was clearly determined. He reached out with a heavily bandaged hand, and pulled Mike to his feet. "Hey, are you okay?" Mike asked. Something was darkening the white bandages. Kurt looked at his hand in disgust, and shook his head.

"I'm _fine_," he insisted. "Now hurry up!"

Kurt had only been at Dalton for about a month. In that time, Mike had already forgotten how bitchy he could get when not getting his way.

At first glance there was a party going on in the room. Everyone was circled around in the middle, and as soon as he and Kurt walked in, he heard a loud "shhhhhh" and even a giggle. It looked like a party, except that in the background Sam was still lying there, still as stone, and everybody was standing as straight as possible. Really, Mike thought, it was probably the best posture he'd ever seen most of his friends exercising.

Finn broke apart from the group, and walked toward them. "Chang, thanks," he said, before placing a hand on Kurt's shoulder. "Kurt, could you make sure that Britt, Tina, and Mercedes are okay? I think we can handle it in here."

Kurt looked at him with a look of extreme bafflement on his face. "Finn, be realistic. Blaine is one of my best friends, and he's undergoing a serious trauma. I'm not going to leave him for that!"

"Kurt. . ." Finn's face looked pained. Pained or constipated. Mike had never really been able to tell Finn's facial expressions apart.

"Kurt? Kurt!"

The voice was weak, but definitely familiar. Kurt squeaked a little, and then jerked free of Finn's hand and flung himself toward the ground. Curious, Mike walked toward them, shedding a green cast to everything in the room. Kurt had prostrated himself behind the dark-haired boy from Dalton, who was half-sitting up now, clutching at Kurt like a lifeline.

"What's going on?" Mike asked Finn under his breath.

"He woke up," Finn said heavily. "Shit, he woke up. Shit. Shit. Shit."

"Kurt," Blaine was breathing fast – too fast, Mike was pretty certain. He sounded on the verge of hyperventilation. "Kurt, don't let them do it. Don't let them cut my arm off. . ."

Ho, now! Mike took a step back, held up his hands. He still wasn't sure why Kurt had come to get him, but there was no way he was going to be involved in hacking off the poor guys' arm. He glanced at Rachel suspiciously. She'd just gotten up. . .was this her idea of eliminating the competition? It sounded horrible, but then again, Rachel Berry had been known to do some horrible things in her search for perfection.

"Blaine," Kurt bit his lip. "Blaine, your arm is killing you. We have to. It's the only way to save you."

"Are you insane?" Blaine let go of Kurt, and turned, instead, to look at Mike. "Don't let them," he pleaded. "I can't. . .how can I play guitar again? Or piano? How can I. . .if we just leave it alone, it might get better, it might. . ."

Mike felt something drop in his stomach. The kid was a musician. As if losing an arm wasn't bad enough, he'd be losing. . .everything. When Mike had been ten years old, he'd sprained his ankle playing football. A sprained ankle, it was nothing, it healed in a week. But that was one week that he couldn't dance, one week that moving, his favorite thing in the world, was torture. One week.

"Blaine. . ." Kurt pressed his forehead against the other boys', forcing him into eye contact. "You can't run away from this," he said. "It's the only way. You _know_ that."

Something stuck. Mike _saw_ the transformation. The two boys were frozen for one long second, and then, shuddering, Blaine let out a long breath. He closed his eyes, and whispered something. Short, one word. Kurt's lips lifted in a bitter smile and he nodded. Blaine swallowed twice, before opening his eyes and turning to Finn.

"Okay," he said. "Do it."

"What? No!" Mike couldn't believe that he was the only one protesting. Everyone else was standing there, tight expressions on their faces. "We can take him to a hospital, to a doctor. We can't just. . ."

"Artie, can you take care of the girls?" Finn asked. "Make sure to keep them hydrated. This could take a while."

Artie nodded, and began crawling toward the door. Mike watched him for half a minute, before turning to follow.

"Chang, where are you going?" Puck asked, stepping in his way, arms crossed.

"I'm not staying here," Mike said. "I'm not going to watch all of you. . .that's just sick. And Mercedes is. . .there's something wrong with her. Like, really wrong."

"We'll help her," Finn said. "We will, Mike. And Blaine won't die. It will be okay. Just. . .hold down his chest, okay?"

"There aren't any lights, Mike," Quinn said softly. "We can't see. . .this is going to happen whether you're here or not, but it would really be better with your. . ."

"With my freaky Kryptonite powers?" Mike asked bitterly. The cheerleader nodded. He glanced around the room. They did seem pretty determined, and he had the feeling that Quinn wasn't bluffing. They really were going to cut the kids' arm off, whether they could see themselves doing it or not.

He'd always known New Directions was crazy. Clearly, he'd had no idea.

With a sigh, he moved to hold over to Blaine. He wiped his hands nervously on his pants. They were sweating. His palms never sweat, not even before a recital. Puck shook out his shoulder, and then knelt down by Blaine's feet. Kurt clutched one hand. Finn stepped forward with

"Aw, c'mon, man, is that a _chainsaw_?" Mike asked. He was beginning to think that maybe he was still sick, that maybe this was all some kind of a crazy hallucination, or a dream. Except that usually his dreams of late involved that crazy girl from _Black Swan_, or Tina suddenly sprouting feathers instead of eyebrows.

"Ready?" Finn asked, and this time Mike Chang could undeniably, certainly, and undoubtedly identify the expression on his friend's face. It was determination, of Chuck Norris proportions. It was what a winning quarterback looked like. It was authority. And if Mike knew one thing, he knew how to follow authority. So with a muttered "Sorry, man," he reached and pushed Blaine's shoulders into the floorboard, eliciting a slight whimper.

"Courage," Kurt whispered. Santana pinched Blaine's upper shoulder, and grabbed around the top of his bicep. With one, swift motion, she pulled. Mike felt Blaine's body shift, the sharp tug as he tried to lift his shoulders up from the ground. Blaine screamed, but Mike could still hear the pop as his arm dislocated from his shoulder.

"Oh, God," Blaine muttered. His heard was tilted back, so all that Mike could see was the underside of his jaw, the tendons standing out starkly on his neck. He heard a sob, and the sound of feet running from the room. Rachel. Lucky girl, not having to stay. Beside him, Kurt sniffed, and leaned down, whispering something into Blaine's ear.

"Right." Finn muttered. "Quinn?"

"Ready?"

Finn turned on the chainsaw.

Artie knew he was a horrible person, but he was really, really glad that the lights went out, and that Mike Chang was needed to both hold Blaine down, and provide light. He was really, really glad that he was sent to check on the girls. And he really, really wished he had earplugs, when he heard Blaine's scream.

They were just dislocating it, he reminded himself, putting down the glass of water he'd just given Brittany. Nothing crazy yet. He crawled over to Tina, and checked her temperature. She was breathing slow and steady, and she didn't feel particularly hot to his hand. He was just finishing wiping down her forehead when he heard the roar of the chainsaw. He dropped the cloth on Tina's face.

"Artie. . ."

Rachel's voice was soft and hesitant, and it didn't sound at all like her. He glanced up, surprised to see her standing over Mercedes. The darker girl was twisting back and forth on the bed, and Artie realized with a sick feeling in his gut that she was acting just like Brittany had the day before.

"What do we do?" Rachel asked, and Artie tried to remember. Quinn had given. . .something. . .to Santana. As soon as Brittany had swallowed it, she'd gotten a little better, breathing quieter. But he couldn't remember what it was.

"Give her something to drink," he suggested.

Blaine was screaming, and then, suddenly, he wasn't. The chainsaw didn't turn off.

He crawled toward the two of them, as Rachel tried to gently drop water into Mercedes' mouth. She swallowed a sip or two, and then began to cough. Her eyes flew open.

"She's choking!" Rachel gasped.

"Turn her on her side," Artie suggested. Rachel tried to do that, even Artie could tell that she tried, but Mercedes was thrashing around too much. He practically threw himself at the two of them, and between him and Rachel, they managed to roll Mercedes off the chair and onto the ground.

She quieted instantly, and Rachel stared up at Artie. "Is she. . ."

Artie leaned forward, and pressed his cheek against his friends' mouth, desperate to feel breath against his face. Nothing, and then, feather light. . .

"Yeah," he said. Nothing, nothing and then. . .feather light. . . "barely."

"I don't know what to do," Rachel admitted. "Maybe Santana. . ."

"She's kind of busy right now," Artie pointed out. "Do you know mouth to mouth?"

Rachel shook her head. Artie didn't know it either. He didn't know

The chainsaw stopped.

Mercedes stopped breathing.

**A/N: So in response to a question I was messaged. The mutations known so far are: **

**Quinn = burning**

**Puck = no pain**

**Santana = aura – reading ability**

**Artie = he can walk! Yay!**

**Mike = green glowing powers**

**Kurt = no sensation **

**Elias = senses emotions**

**Brittany = ?**

**Mercedes = ?**

**Tina = ?**

**Rachel =?**

**Sam = the power of UNCONSCIOUSNESS!**

**Finn and Blaine, because they were not effected by the radiation poisoning, are normal (hey, it works in my head, okay?) **

**Coming Soon: The Glee Clubbers get on the road to Lima! Rachel discovers how she's been changed! Someone else wakes up and someone else dies (I know, I'm a bitch)**


	14. Death

**A/N: As promised, the follow up! See, I'm quick and keep my promises!**

Kurt couldn't believe that Blaine was gone. The boy who had saved him from bullies, who had imbued him with a sense of self-worth when nobody else had cared, was gone. He would never see that charming smile again, never see hazel-green eyes crinkle with joy. Never hear that deep laugh, that throaty voice. He'd never be held tight in the other boys' arms. He'd never kiss him. He'd never admit that he loved him.

Blaine was gone, just like his mom, just like his dad, probably, and Kurt was alone. Completely, and totally, alone.

A/N: Just kidding! Couldn't resist. . .so many people were so focused on Blaine not dying. Anyway, here's the real chappie.

Rachel Berry thrived on routine. When she woke up, she stuck to a quick routine. First, she washed her face and brushed her teeth, ready for a fresh start. Then she worked four for precisely thirty-seven minutes, followed by a shower. She ate yogurt, granola, and a banana, and then she sang a few vocal warm-ups. She finished with a lemon tea to soothe her voice, and went to school.

There were other routines, too. Whenever she was slushied, she first affected a shocked disgust, and then diva'ed to the restroom. First she wiped off her face, then cleaned out the hair. Paper towel only was used.

There were routines for class, routines for Glee club, routines for bedtime, routines for. . .for. . .everything. She liked routines, because routines meant control, and Rachel really liked to be in control.

Right then, she felt anything but control. She did everything she knew how to do: she struck a pose. It was a beautiful pose, really, very dramatic: feet braced wide apart, back arched, one finger thrown forward and trembling as it focused on the source of distress. Only there was no spotlight, no audience, and no script.

"Fix her!" she declared, but there was nobody there to fix Mercedes. . .only Artie, spread unelegantly on the ground, peering up at her over glasses. Nobody but Brittany, quietly shivering on the coach, and Tina, still asleep on the ground.

And the soundtrack. . .sobbing from the room next door, prayers being whispered, and silence.

Too much silence.

"Rachel, I don't know what to do. . ." Artie said. "Maybe we should get help. . .go get Santana."

"But I—"

"This isn't time for dramatics, Rachel," Artie said, with more force than Rachel had ever heard from him. "Just go get her."

Rachel felt like she was in a daze, as she turned on her heel and walked back toward the room. Everything sounded flat, muffled, like she was listening under water. And dark. . .so very dark, except for that soft green light leaking beneath the door to the bedroom. Maybe it was a dream, some kind of a nightmare. Up until that very moment, Rachel had thought the worst thing possible was missing out a solo, feeling a cold slushie running down her back, seeing Finn with another girl. . .now

She crept around the corner of the door, and froze.

Rachel Berry did not freeze. She thrived on stress, on anticipation. But she froze at the tableau in front of her, literally unable to understand the scene depicted before her eyes. She tried to take a breath, but there were cotton balls in her mouth and she felt horribly, horribly thirsty.

"Rachel. . ."

It was Finn who came forward, Finn, the love of her life, her duet partner in life, but it wasn't Finn, not really. It was this horrible, massive monster, drenched in blood and with deep lines etched into his face. She choked, put a hand to her mouth. He kept walking toward her and lifted his hands. They dripped red, and his eyes in the dim light were black.

She ran. She didn't stomp out, she didn't storm out, she fled as fast as she could. She ran into the woods, and didn't stop. She lost a shoe, but didn't stop. She was pretty sure she was getting lost, but she didn't stop. And then she was on top of a hill, and the cabin was behind her.

So she stopped.

She was breathing deep, because though she had many talents, Rachel was not an athlete. She closed her eyes, and welcomed the darkness. Breathe in through the nose, out through the mouth, In through the nose, out through the mouth. Slow. Steady. Controlled.

"A little more control."

"Eek!" There it went again, that shock of fear flying through her body. This time, however, Rachel refused to let it override her senses. She refused to run away, and instead turned around. A pudgy, middle aged man was standing in front of her, clad in overalls and flannel. His face was completely devoid of expression.

"Who are you?" she asked.

"Elias," he grunted. "I own the house you kids are staying in."

"Oh," Rachel considered this for a moment. "Thank you. Your generosity is much appreciated."

Elias just shrugged, and continued staring down at the cabin. Rachel was feeling better now. She saw a tall shape lumbering toward her. Finn, probably. She hoped he'd cleaned off some.

"What did you mean, a little more control?"

Elias didn't answer for a long moment. The figure tripped, and flailed desperately to stay upright. Definitely Finn, she realized with a little smile. She supposed that they were back together again. It figured, that it would take an apocalypse to convine Finn to get over their petty argument.

"Did somebody die?" Elias asked.

Rachel bit her lip. She blinked, harshly. She could cry on cue – she'd been practicing since she was six. She used the skill to her advantage often, though not, she believed, excessively. Right then, however, it was a struggle not to cry. Remembering the bedroom, Quinn with her hands stained red, Puck with a frozen expression on his face and Kurt with tears coursing like a river. Remembering Mercedes lying so still on the ground, barely breathing, and then not breathing at all.

"Two people," she said softly. Elias shook his head.

"No," he said. "Only one."

"How do you know?"

Another moment passed, and a breath of wind rushed by them. It smelled like ashes and death. Rachel looked back down. She could see Finns' face now, the look of intense concentration as he tried not to trip again. She saw something else, too, out the corner of her eye: fluffy and still. She refused to look.

"You kids need to leave," Elias said. "As soon as possible. I can't go back down there with y'all. It will kill me."

Rachel knew that she was occasionally more dramatic than necessary, but she thought the man's final statement was a trifle histrionic, even by her definition. But when she looked at him, his face still worse that blank, tired mask. His eyes were dead. Maybe there was something to what he said, she thought.

"Okay," She swallowed. "Okay."  
She headed back toward the house, back toward her friends and Finn. It would have been a nice touch if the sun had been rising in the background, but it was still dark. Rachel cursed the early spring, and overly long night hours. She met Finn halfway, and was pleased to see that he'd changed his shirt, and washed his hands at least.

"Are you okay?" he asked. Rachel didn't answer, she just threw herself into his chest, and enjoyed the feeling of his arms encircling her body again. This was how it was meant to be. This was where she belonged.

"Mercedes. . ." she said softly. Finn held her closer.

"I don't know," he admitted. "Santana was giving her PCR when I left."

Rachel frowned, her face still pressed against her boyfriend's chest. It took her a moment to understand. . .until then she did.

"Blaine?" she asked. Finn let go of her, and stepped back. His expression was closed off, and he resembled Elias a bit in that moment. Rachel was stunned. Standing in front of her was a Future Finn, and for a moment she had a vision of the man he would become: strong and confident, a leader in his own right, and now because of his prowess on the football field or vocal talent. And then a blink and it was gone, though Finn still looked more stoic than she'd ever seen him.

"I don't know," he said. "I left after you came in."

"Oh." Rachel reached out a hand, and took Finn's in her own. She threaded their fingers together and nodded. "Well," she said, trying to sound as bright and chipper as possible. "The show must go on."

They walked back together in silence.

Rachel had expected some kind of noise when they walked in the front door. She'd expected her friends to demand to know where they'd gone. At the very least, she'd expected hair pulling and screaming over the death of a friend. And secretly, she'd hoped to walk in the door to see Mercedes and Blaine smiling back at her.

Instead it was silent. Finn pushed the door open, and then gently guided her in with a hand to the back. Rachel held her breath, released it slowly when nothing in the living room seemed too horrible. Artie was holding Brittany's hand, and when they walked through the door, he looked up. Even behind the glasses, his eyes looked empty and hopeless.

Puck and Santana were sitting on the sofa, her legs drawn up beneath her. One of his arms encircled her shoulders, and she was tightly hugging his waist. Both of their faces were hidden: Santana's against Puck's shirt, and his in the dark curls of her hair. It was impossible to tell who was comforting whom.

Tina was lying on the floor, still, though her head was now propped in Mike's lap. One of his hands was playing idly with her hair, while the other was clamped tightly in one of hers. Rachel was pleased to see that his eyes were open.

There was no sign of Mercedes.

"Come on," Finn said gently. "Let's go check on Blaine."

Nobody said anything as they walked through the room. Nobody assured them that he was just resting, nobody warned them not to go in. Rachel's free hand clamped around Finn's wrist, so that she was holding onto him with everything she had.

Sam was lying on the floor, now, where Rachel herself had been only a day or two ago. Was that all it had been? It felt like a lifetime. What looked like ten pairs of sheets covered the ground where Blaine had been.

The boy himself was lying on the bed. He looked like he had aged ten years. Deep creases bit into the contours of his face. He was pale and chalky. But, Rachel realized with relief, his chest was rising and falling.

"Good morning," Rachel said softly, disentangling herself from Finn and walking over to the comatose by. She gently rearranged a curl, and wondered where Kurt was. "You have a great talent," she said. "I'm glad that you can continue to share it."

She kept her eyes carefully away from the left side of the bed, which looked strangely empty, away from the thick padding of gauze wrapped around his left shoulder. Not looking didn't make it go away, though. She bent down and pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead. His skin felt clammy.

"Come on," Finn said. "Let him rest. He deserves it."

As Rachel turned to leave, she couldn't help but think, _you do, too_.

Rachel didn't know where they were headed next, but it was clear that Finn had some kind of a plan, so she followed him. Back through the den, where Artie's eyes inevitably found them and followed them, and through the kitchen. That seemed to be as far as Finn had gotten in his plan, however, for he looked around in confusion.

"Were you hungry?" Rachel asked.

"Yeah," Finn muttered. "But that's not. . .where's Quinn?"

There was a sharp, steady sound, emanating from just beyond the outside door. Rachel pushed past her boyfriend. The gentle blush of dawn was just beginning to color the sky, and it was light enough, by this point, for her to see the two figures just beyond the house. Quinn was standing with her arms characteristically crossed, her chin high.

"Stop," she said quietly. Rachel could barely hear her. "You're going to make yourself sick again, and that's no good for anyone."

Rachel stepped outside. Kurt was standing knee deep in the ground, a shovel clenched tightly in his hands. She was, with horror, that blood was seeping through the bandage he wore on his right hand. He ignored it, however, shaking his head angrily, and digging into the ground again.

"No," he said, and his voice was cracked and broken. "It was my fault. I killed her."

That was when Rachel saw the bundle of sheets on the ground, and she wondered for a brief moment just why Elias had so many sheets, anyway. Quinn glanced at her, looking almost angry, but Rachel ignored the other girl. She put a hand on top of Kurt's, covering the top of the shovel. He whipped around to glare at her. His eyes were so dilated that the black was almost devouring the slate blue of his irises.

"It's not your fault, Kurt," she said. He snarled at her, actually snarled, baring his teeth and growling a little.

"It is," he said. "Mike _told_ me she was sick, he _told_ me, and I ignored it. I should have been with her, I should have. . ."

Finn had come up by this time, and he took the shovel away from the smaller boy. Kurt let it go with surprisingly little fight.

"Dude, you were with Blaine. He needed you," Finn said.

Kurt shuddered a little. "Yeah, well," he muttered. "So did 'Cedes."

"Blaine might not be alive if it weren't for you," Quinn said, still standing back from the small group. "Mercedes would never have blamed you for saving his life."

Kurt sniffed. Shook his head. "I keep telling myself that," he said. Rachel reached out a hand, and helped him out of the pit. Without a word, Finn jumped in and started shoveling. "It doesn't matter," Kurt continued. "Because I was so happy. . .I was so goddamn happy that he was going to live, that he had a chance, and just next door she was dying. She was alone."

"She wasn't alone," Rachel said. "I was there. Artie was with her."

"You ran, Rachel," Kurt said, but there was no anger or vindictiveness in his tone.

"I wasn't there, either," Quinn said. "She was my best friend. She let me stay with her when my own mother didn't love me. She was there when my mother was born. She was my best friend, and I wasn't with her."

"I can't even cry anymore," Kurt muttered. "I'm all out of tears." He glanced up at Rachel, and a bitter smile twisted his lips. "What kind of a diva can't even cry?"

Rachel wished she had an answer for him, but she didn't, so she just hugged him a little closer. When she let go, Quinn had disappeared.

"We'll have a funeral for her," Finn said abruptly. "She deserves that."

"Not in the dark," Kurt said quickly. "She wouldn't like that. We'll wait for the sun."

Rachel bit down on her lip, and hugged Kurt tightly. They stood that way, together, while Finn finished digging the grave, and the sun slowly rose over the horizon.

**A/N: Hope you enjoyed it. Very poetic. I feel that Rachel would have a poetic soul. Also: my favorite comment ever: Does Blaine have regenerative powers? Will his arm grow back like a lizard?**

** Urm. . .maybe? But probably not. I wouldn't count on it. . .pretty sure he's going to have to just deal with being the one-armed wonder. Which is okay, because if anyone is supermegafoxyawesomehot enough to pull it off, it's Blaine.**

** COMING SOON!: The funeral (obviously) and the Glee Clubbers meet with disaster on their way back to Lima (Jeez, can't the kids catch a break?)**


	15. Fields of Gold

**A/N: Good eyes on the comments, there. Actually, I DID mean to say that Mercedes was present at Quinn's mother's birth. . .Mercedes power was. . .IMMORTALITY!**

**Oh, wait, she just died. Never mind.**

**Anyway, I consider this chapter kind of the end of PART I: DISEASE. Very much akin to Stephen King's "The Stand" or Cronin's "The Passage."**

**Now we move on to Part II: LIMA. Which might just be worse.**

They buried Mercedes at noon, when the sun was directly overhead. It felt right, somehow, that Mercedes should go out in brilliant sunshine. She'd always had such a bright spirit.

Tina felt exhausted, but refused to stay inside. She clutched at Mike's arm as she stood beside her friends. Her head still pounded, but most of the fever seemed to have faded away. She was still trying to understand what has going on, what exactly had happened while she'd been sick and out of it.

Things had changed, that much she knew. Quinn stood apart from everyone, and her face was as composed and blank as it had been back in her head cheerleader days, before she'd been a friend. She didn't look at anyone through the small ceremony they put together. . .just stared down at the ground.

Artie was in his wheelchair, cradling Brittany in his arms. She was still weak. . .so much weaker than Tina was. . .but had also refused to stay inside. Mercedes deserved to have everyone there.

Well, almost everyone, Tina reminded herself. Sam, who still hadn't woken up, was inside. Tina had learned almost immediately not to mention him. There was a fear, lurking in the back of everyone's mind, that maybe he wouldn't wake up. It had been a week, after all.

Everybody else was crying. Finn hugged Rachel, and Santana held Puck. Kurt stood straight by himself, while Blaine, his face still etched with lines of pain, leaned back against a tree.

They were all there. They were all together. But this time, they didn't feel like family.

Quinn had read a verse out of a tattered old Bible they'd found in Elias' bedroom. That was it. That was the ceremony. Puck and Finn together, separated from their girlfriends (if that was even what Santana was, now), and gently lowered Mercedes' body into the hole in the ground. They shuffled back, looking terrified and uncomfortable.

"Somebody should say something," Kurt said, his voice high and strident. "That's what happens at funerals. Somebody has to say something."

Tina opened her mouth, and closed it just as quickly. What could she say? What could she possibly say, about losing one of her best friends? About waking up from a horrible sickness, only to find out that one of the people she depended on just. . .wasn't there. Should she say that it was horrible? That it was unfair? That out of all of them, Mercedes was probably the kindest, the most selfless, the most deserving of life? It was all so cliché. . .it was all so true.

Tina had thought she was all cried out. She was wrong.

It was Blaine, surprisingly, who started it all. The kid from Dalton, the one they barely knew. He fell forward a little, bracing himself on his arm, before slowly tottering upright. Kurt steadfastly didn't look back at him, but Tina saw the way his Adam's apple bobbed, the way he blinked harshly to keep back tears.

Blaine walked slowly forward, and that was when Tina saw why he'd stumbled, why he'd lurched at the ground. In his fist he held a handful of dirt, which he carefully threw into the grave. He cleared his throat.

"You didn't deserve this," he said thickly. "You were such a good person. . .I barely knew you, and I knew that. If it weren't for me, you'd still be alive. I'm so sorry, Mercedes."

Without another word, he turned and walked slowly back into the cabin. But his motion had started something, as Artie wheeled himself forward, still carefully holding on to Brittany.

"You were one of my best friends," he said. "You always helped me out. You never saw me as anything different, just because I was in this chair. I'm going to miss you."

"I love you, Mercedes," Brittany whispered.

They, too, turned and went back inside.

Puck and Santana walked up next.

"Hey, chocolate thunder," Puck said with a sad little smile. "Jews and Blacks gotta stick together. I guess I wish we could have stuck it out a little longer, together."

"We could have ruled, together," Santana whispered. "This sucks."

"You were the only person who believed in me, when nobody else did," Quinn said. "You stood by me when everyone else just wanted to leave me alone. You were the best friend a person could ever have."

Mike tugged at Tina's hand a little. She knew him well enough to know what that motion meant. He wasn't demanding, wasn't chiding, was just asking. Did she want to go forward? Did she want to say anything? She shook her head. She couldn't. . .couldn't get the words out, couldn't get out any words. It was like when she'd been faking the stutter. She knew what she wanted to say, but knew she couldn't say it.

And then Rachel stepped up, and she rubbed the back of her hand furiously across her eyes. "I think it's only appropriate," she said, breaking for a moment to sob, "that I say good-bye to you in song, one diva to another. A truly touching ballad, to reflect the way that you've touched all of our lives."

Tina found herself nodding her head, because really, what could be more appropriate.

"_You'll remember me when the west winds blow,"_

The voice that came out of Rachel's mouth was wrecked – lower than normal, but that was probably from all of the crying. Wrecked with emotion. But, strangest of all, flat.

Even Rachel seemed to notice, as she frowned. She glanced down. "I'm sorry, Mercedes," she whispered. "I still seem to be a little sick. . .but it's the only way I know how to say good-bye. . ."

"_You'll forget the sun in his jealous sky_

_ As we walk the fields of gold_,"

Quinn stepped forward, and joined Rachel in the next verse.

_So she took her love, for to gaze awhile_

_ Upon the fields of barley_

_ In his arms she fell, as her hair came down_

_ Among the fields of gold_,"

And then Kurt stepped forward

"_Will you stay with me, will you be my love_

_ Among the fields of barley_

_ We'll forget the sun in his jealous sky_

_ As we lie in fields of gold_,"

And somewhere around there Finn joined in, and Santana and Puck, and Tina felt the song swell in her own heart.

_I never made promises lightly_

_ And there have been some that I've broken_

_ But I swear in the days still left_

_ We'll walk in the fields of gold_

_ You'll walk in the fields of gold_."

And that was it. Finn walked forward, picked up the shovel, and began to cover the grave. Tina allowed herself to dissolve in tears, let Mike hold her close.

**If I knew how to make dashes I would make one here**

Tina didn't like that they had to split up. It didn't feel right, but Quinn had insisted that it was ridiculous to continue using the bus, and Finn and Blaine had agreed.

"Besides," Quinn pointed out, "we'll be right behind each other. We can get some walkie-talkies from the convenience store. You won't even know the difference."

"I know," Tina sniffed. "It makes sense. It's just. . .I don't want us to be apart. You guys might be all that I have left. . ."

Mike squeezed her shoulder. "We know," he whispered.

"I'll drive one car," Quinn announced. "Finn, do you want to drive the other?"

"Are you sure that's a good idea?" Rachel asked. "Finn isn't exactly good with directions. He gets lost going from the locker room to the football field sometimes."

"I"ll ride with him," Blaine said, and Finn shot a triumphant smile at the other boy. "I may not be good for much anymore, but at least I can still read a map." Blaine frowned, and thought for a moment. "If somebody else holds it for me, that is."

"And I'll be your co-pilot, baby mama," Puck said. "You and me, all the way."

"And Santana," Quinn said quickly. Tina was beginning to feel like this was a high school gym class, and she didn't like the way that she felt like she was being picked last.

"I think Santana should ride with Brittany," Artie spoke up. "Since she's still sick and everything, and Santana is kind of like our Dr. McDreamy."

Tina was pretty sure that her jaw had hit the floor. Artie – fly like a white guy Artie – watched _Grey's Anatomy_?

"Well, then Blaine should be with her, too," Kurt said fiercely. "He just had surgery!"

"I'm fine," Blaine said soothingly. "Quinn did a great job with my not-arm. Santana can ride in Quinn's car."

Kurt still didn't look convinced. Blaine tried a lifted eyebrow and a dazzling smile. Tina felt herself go a little weak in the knees. He was just so darn _pretty_.

"C'mon, Kurt. Admit it. The no arm thing makes me kind of badass."

"Yeah, he's a total BAMF now," Puck agreed. Without looking at the other boy, Blaine lifted his fist and the two fistbumped.

"Where do you want Tina and me?" Mike asked. Yes, just as she'd feared, Tina realized. They'd been picked last. It was just like the movies – the token black character died first, followed by the Asian.

Oh, God, she couldn't believe she'd just thought that. Merecedes wasn't a token anything. Mercedes was. . .and as she felt tears well up in her eyes again, she realized just how silly it was of her to be getting upset over an ego at that point, anyway.

"Quinn, Puck, Santana, Brittany, and, I assume, Sam and Artie, right?" Rachel mused. Artie and Quinn vigorously nodded. "Well, that's one van full. You'll be riding with Finn and I, then."

"And me?" Kurt asked. Rachel's mouth dropped open.

"Well I. . .I just assumed that you would. . .I thought you'd want to be with. . ."

"He's just joking," Blaine said with another dapper smile. Tina reminded herself that she loved her boyfriend. And that he had great abs. She really doubted that Blaine's abs had anything on a dancer's. She'd seen him at Sectionals. A dreamboat he might be, but a dancer, definitely not. She snuck a glance at Kurt. He wasn't smiling, or laughing. Didn't seem like he thought it was a terribly funny joke, himself.

It didn't take long to get everything packed up. Quinn and Blaine had taken care of loading up the cars before all of the drama had gotten started. It was just a matter of getting Sam in a car (it took almost everybody pushing, shoving, and manipulating his limbs to finally get him seated upright), and deciding whether it was worth the effort to bring Artie's wheelchair. They were low on space, but he insisted that, despite the exercise he was doing, he was still a far way from being able to walk again.

Quinn's car was loaded up first, and they pulled up the drive a little, waiting for the others.

"So," Rachel said with a grin. "Shotgun?"

"Um. . ." Finn and Blaine exchanged a glance. Tina was confused. They seemed to be talking with their eyes. Finn shook his head. Blaine nodded. Finn winced. Blaine nodded again. Finn sighed.

"I'm actually going to sit pointside," Blaine said. "At least to start. We want to make sure Finn doesn't get distracted."

Rachel considered this. "Very well," she said finally. "I can see how our newly revitalized relationship could cause undue stress and distraction for Finn. I will sit in the middle, instead. With Kurt."

"Um, actually. . ." Mike raised a finger. "I get kind of carsick. . .could Tina and I sit in the middle instead?"

"It was always my intention to sit in the back," Rachel said. "Come along, Kurt."

With a diva worthy swish, she marched to the van, and clambed into the back. More quietly, Kurt followed after, and within moments they were all ready to go.

Tina looked back at the cabin as they drove away from it. It didn't hold happy memories for her. . .just death and sadness, really. And yet, as they started driving back home, she couldn't help wishing that they could just stay there. Eventually they would have gotten over the pain, and they would have returned to being a family. As it was, they were going forward into the unknown. She wasn't sure that she wanted to see what had happened to Lima. As long as it was in the distanct, she could just pretend that everything was alright.

But as the vans both hit their stride and began chugging along, she realized that she wouldn't be able to keep pretending for much longer.

**A/N: Yeah, Kurt's being kind of a boob. Get used to it, it's going to be bitchy Kurt for a while. Really, the repercussions of Mercedes' death will be carrying through. AliveMercedes = not important to this story. DeadMercedes= Huge Deal!**

** Also, how hilarious is it that Mike Chang has motion sickness? HA!**


	16. Convenience Stores

**A/N: Thanks for the reviews – you guys are too nice.**

**Also, for you Rachel lovers: there have been hints in the past four chapters regarding her mutation: it takes her a while to figure it out, so it won't be spelled out for a few more chapters, but it's definitely in there.**

Kurt felt numb. In just a week, he felt like he'd lost everything. He'd just had to bury his best friend. He literally couldn't feel his clothes on his own body – just a kind of pressure. He'd had to hold his crush's hand during an amputation. He would probably never see his dad again. And nobody seemed to get it.

Sure, they'd all cried at the funeral, but then they'd set about making plans to head back to Lima. Blaine was acting like his loss of limb was no big deal. . .was actually _joking_ about it. Finn and Rachel were too caught up in their reunion to care about anyone else. Everybody was more focused on their stupid _relationships_ than they were worried about the serious trouble that they were all in.

Kurt was pretty sure that it was the apocalypse. He knew what happened in those movies – people died, the world was disgusting, and he'd be forced, at some point, to wear fatigues. Number one: worst fashion statement of all time. Number two: he didn't _do_ the butch look.

"I really enjoy watching our boyfriends get along," Rachel whispered to him, pointing up to where Finn and Blaine were casually chatting in the front of the van. Kurt rolled his eyes, and answered perfunctorily, "We're just friends."

That shut Rachel up for all of 2.3 seconds. "When Finn and I get married, we'll be sisters," she whispered. Kurt sighed, leaned on his hand, and looked out the window. Everything looked more or less the same: same trees, same grass, same road, all covered by the thin brown film that meant spring in the northeastern states. It was like there had never been a bomb at all. Except. . .Kurt straightened up a little. No birds. He couldn't see a single bird in the sky, in the trees, or perched on the telephone poles. Not a single one.

He was going to point this out to Rachel (why he didn't know – she'd probably just launch into a rendition of "Blackbird" or something) when he noticed that the car was slowing down.

"What are we doing?" he asked. Rachel turned to face him.

"Stopping for supplies, of course," she said imperiously. "One can never be too prepared, you know."

The car pulled to a lurching stop in front of the convenience store, and Kurt remembered with a start that Finn still didn't have his driver's license. Whose idea had it been to let him drive, anyway?

"Put it in park," Blaine said. "No, don't just. . .okay, fine."

Finn, evidently, had pulled the key out of the ignition before putting it in park. Kurt put a hand to his face. They were doomed.

He almost didn't join the others in raiding the convenience store. Really, he doubted there was anything in there that wasn't ridiculously processed, or filled with trans fat. He had absolutely no desire to poison his body. He probably wouldn't have left at all, except that Rachel had turned around and was rapping furiously at his window.

So he got out of the car. But he was absolutely _not_ going to walk into that sad excuse for a food store. Why, he wondered, couldn't they have made it to New York, where there was sure to be a nice, sanitary Whole Foods? He crossed his arm across his chest, raised his chin, and struck a dramatic pose as he leaned against the car. He tried to gaze heroically off into the distance, but the mask that he was usually able to wear with such aplomb was slipping. He missed Mercedes, and he couldn't shake the sense of guilt off. He knew, in theory, that it wasn't his fault, that there was nothing he could have done for her. That didn't bother him. It was the way he hadn't even considered it.

He'd been so concerned about Blaine. Blaine, who he'd only known for a few months, compared to a near lifetime of friendship with Mercedes. He knew where he stood with her – they were BFFs forever. With Blaine. . .he wasn't even sure that he ranked in the other boys' top ten. And yet at the very suggestion that Blaine might have been in trouble, he'd thrown aside years of friendship.

His lower lip trembled. He'd spent so much time blowing Mercedes off for a dream. He'd dragged her along on dates, for crying out loud, rather than miss out on a precious moment with Blaine. And now he had a whole lifetime of those stupid precious moments, and all he wanted was another five minutes of talking fashion or gossip.

"Hey."

And of course, it was dapper Blaine, perfect Blaine, freakin' composed Blaine who had been stranded with a gaggle of freaks, gotten a fever, and lost an _arm_ who had to come and bother him. The very last person that Kurt wanted to see.

So he didn't answer. And maybe he was pulling a bitch move, but didn't the other boy _care_? Did he just not get the fact that they were, as the French would say, shit deep in shit?

"Okay, I get it."

Kurt still didn't look, but he could sense the other boy, feel him as he slithered down to sit against the bus, and let out a long sigh. Of course, Kurt thought. The gays really knew how to pour on the drama.

"No, I don't think you do," Kurt snotted.

The other boy didn't answer. Kurt was used to Blaine taking a moment or two before speaking: used to him gathering his thoughts, and making sure that he worded everything just so. But a minute passed, and then two, and there was no answer. Kurt tried to sneak a glance out the corner of his eye: he didn't really want to be caught. But his body was twisted away, and Blaine was on the ground, and he just couldn't see. So he turned all the way around, and was shocked by what he saw.

Blaine was a mess. And sure, he'd been a mess for a while – Kurt had never known just how _curly_ his hair was without gel, or how _dark_ his eyes got when he was low on sleep. And sure, his olive complexion had been destroyed to a pasty grey. But he'd still be chivalrous and altogher put together. The boy in front of him, right then, was broken.

Just for a moment, and then Blaine met his eye. It was like turning off a television: there were unshed tears glistening in his eyes, and then a harsh blink and they were gone. His mouth was twisted in a bitter sneer, and then flash, it was a blinding white smile. Kurt blinked twice, certain he'd witnessed something extremely rare and precious.

"You lost your best friend, Kurt," Blaine said. He reached up with one arm, tugged at Kurt's sleeve. Kurt watched him. He _knew_ that the fabric should be brushing against the skin of his arm. He watched as it was pulled down, and then tweaked back up. He saw it, he knew it, but he couldn't feel it. He bit his lip, and sat down beside his friend.

Blaine shifted his grip from the piece of fabric, to Kurt's hand. He clasped it tightly, and smiled a little wanly. "If I had two arms, I'd put them around you right now," he said.

"It doesn't matter," Kurt said, and he looked away again, because it hurt too much to look at the other boy, and if all Kurt was ever going to feel again was numb, he didn't need it served with a dash of heartbreak.

"No," Blaine said. "I guess it doesn't."

They sat in silence for a few moments, both watching as their friends dashed through the store. Finn had his arms piled high with what looked like donuts, and every few seconds would drop one. Hilariously, he would clamber down to his knees to retrieve the one escaped package, which resulted in a dozen others falling as well. Puck had emptied a gallon of milk, and was filling up the now-empty container with a sickening mixture of slushie. Quinn was holding a package of hot dogs in her hand and staring at them like they were the Holy Grail. . .kind of disturbing, in Kurt's eyes, not least of all because nobody should eat hot dogs. Ever. There was simply no excuse for it.

"Listen," Blaine said. "I have a favor to ask of you."

Kurt jerked around in surprise, because really, that was a shock. In all the time they'd been friends, Blaine had never asked him for anything. It had always been a one-sided relationship, with Blaine giving and Kurt taking. He didn't say anything, because somehow a big glob of spit had gotten stuck in his throat, and he absolutely refused to make the incredibly unattractive "ngah" noise that usually came out when he was embarrassed around Blaine.

"Do you think you could drive?" he asked. "I'm not sure Finn really knows how. . ."

"He never passed the drivers test," Kurt admitted. He considered for a moment. A month ago – heck, a week ago – he would have jumped at the chance to sit beside the other boy. His face would have turned a humiliating shade of tomato red, his eyes would have lit up, and he would have been bobbing his head like that miniature toy dog his dad kept on the dashboard of his truck. But now. . .he couldn't help it, every time he looked at Blaine, he thought of Mercedes, and his gut twisted.

He'd given up everything to save Blaine and nothing had changed, anyway. And the worst of it was, Kurt was pretty sure that he would do everything the same again, anyway. That was what killed him. That was what made everything so hard.

"Kurt. . .?" Blaine's voice sounded pleading.

"I think maybe you should ask Mike," Kurt said, his voice low and subdued. He stood up, not even noticing that Blaine was trying to clutch his hand as he walked away. It wouldn't have made a difference. He walked into the store and helped Finn carry the pile of donuts out to the car. By the time they had all been safely stashed around the driver's seat, everyone else had finished with their escapades and returned to the vans.

"Shouldn't we leave some money or something?" Rachel asked nervously. Puck and Santana cracked up at that, and yelled "Dine and dash!" while giving each other high fives.

"It doesn't really look like anyone will notice," Artie said, a bit more helpfully. Rachel still looked uncertain, but got into the car. Kurt clambered into the back with her. He wasn't surprised to see that Finn was still driving, although Blaine looked slightly terrified at the thought.

He must have dozed off at some point, because he was definitely startled awake a few hours later by Rachel tugging at his shirt, hard enough that his head was banging against the window. It didn't hurt – of course it didn't – and he couldn't tell if the glass was warm or cold, but it was definitely still enough to wake him. There was a . . .kind of pressure. He turned to glare at her.

"_What_?" he hissed.

Rachel recoiled immediately. "Sorry," she said. Kurt snorted. Unlikely. When Rachel got into one of her moods – and she definitely looked like she was in a mood just then – she was, quite simply, _unable_ to empathize with anyone. It was pathological, really.

Sure enough, a moment later she was repeatedly whispering his name. With a belabored and martyred sigh, he turned to her again.

"What is it, Rachel?"

She handed him her headphones. "Would you listen to this?" she asked. Kurt raised one eyebrow. She had to be getting at something. The only time that Rachel shared her music was when she was preparing a piece and wanted to know if someone else would be able to effectively harmonize with her. He was pretty sure that at this point she'd given up her dreams of winning Nationals, but with Rachel Berry. . .one never knew.

He put one earbud in, and clicked play. A moment later, Barbara Streisand's voice sounded. He listened for a few bars before turning to look at Rachel.

"Does it sound. . .different. . .to you?" Rachel asked worriedly. "Like maybe the headphones are broken or something?"

Kurt considered. It wasn't the highest quality he'd ever heard – really, he would have expected better of Rachel then illegally downloading music – but it sounded like classic Streisand for all that. "It sounds fine," he told her.

"Oh, okay," Rachel's face dropped at that, and she accepted her iPod back. "Thanks for that."

Kurt returned to his silent study of the outdoors. Just ahead of them he could see the other van, driving steadily in its lane. He wondered if the atmosphere in that car was any happier than his own. Probably not, he thought with a sigh. If anything, it was probably more depressed. After all, Sam still hadn't woken up, and Brittany still seemed kind of out of it. And Quinn was. . .

Kurt flexed his hand. It was still swaddled in gauze. He'd looked at earlier, just before getting on the van. He'd wanted to see if it was still injured, because it didn't hurt at all. It had, however, been grotesque to look at, with angry looking blisters and raw, red skin. Poor Quinn, he thought, for just a moment. Poor Quinn. Poor Blaine. Poor me.

Just then the van in front veered sharply, rocketing from one wheel to the other.

"Holy Cheesus!" Finn squeaked.

"Turn into the skid!" Blaine yelled. "Turn into the skid!"

Their own car bumped once, twice, and Kurt could _feel_ as the wheels lost traction with the ground and they begin to slip. Of course. Of course, the one fucking thing he could feel was the car skidding.

Blaine leaned over across Finn and grabbed the wheel in his hand. In doing so, Kurt saw his bandaged stump hit the side of his chair. He saw the sharp intake of breath, the way the other boy bit down hard on his cheek. Kurt wouldn't be surprised if he was tasting blood right then.

"Turn. Into. The. Skid," Blaine huffed through tense teeth, and jerked the wheel.

Kurt was clutching Rachel tightly. Huh, he thought. Wonder how that happened.

Whatever Blaine did must have worked, for their van slowly righted itself. Finn grabbed the wheel back, and slowed down. They came to a stop beside the road. Tina screamed, a bit belatedly, and Mike pat her on the back.

"What happened?" Rachel asked.

"I don't. . .Quinn!" Finn exclaimed, ripping his seatbelt off and jumping out of the car. Blaine fumbled to follow him. Kurt, however, remained in the back seat, frozen in shock, his arms still full of Rachel. Terrified he glanced out the back of the van to see that the other car was still upright, also parked neatly on the side of the road. Whatever had happened, the car hadn't crashed or exploded. He supposed that must be good.

Finn and Blaine had reached it by this point. A shaken Mike Chang moved to follow after them, but Tina grabbed his hand and pulled him tight. Kurt continued to watch the pantomime.

Quinn stepped out of the car, clearly shaken. Finn opened his arms to hug her, and Quinn almost let him. Kurt whistled lowly. Blaine, however, grabbed Finn by the shirt and pulled him back. They spoke for a long moment, and then Finn walked away. He walked. . .angrily, Kurt thought, and then abruptly turned and banged his fist into the side of the car.

Kurt swallowed the lump in his throat.

Nobody else exited the vehicle.

**A/N: Coming up: some serious Quinn/Santana/Puck action, as well as some Artie/Britt angst. Sam finally gains consciousness, and both Kurt and Blaine continue to struggle with their inner demons. **


	17. Blanket

**A/N: Thanks for making this my most-reviewed, most-alerted story ever!**

**Be warned: kind of a filler chapter, but it sets up a lot of stuff for the second arc. Also: writing from Brittany's PoV is super, SUPER hard!**

Every part of Brittany's body hurt, but she didn't want to say anything, because the part that hurt the most was her heart. She really missed Mercedes. It was sad that her friend was dead. And everybody else seemed sad, too, and she thought that maybe her heart was making the rest of her body hurt, too. Maybe it took all of the hurt and put it in her blood, and made it go through the rest of her body.

It was sad that they were in different cars, too. She couldn't smile at her favorite dolphin, or pat the pretty Dalton boy in the curls. But at least she got to sit next to Artie, who was her very special boyfriend. Artie said he could walk again. Brittany didn't know why he was so excited. Santa had said that if she was really patient, maybe Artie would walk on his own, and now he was. Just like Santa promised. And she was happy that Santana was in the car, too, even though she was sitting in the back and kept whining about how Sam smelled bad.

Brittany thought that he probably smelled bad because he didn't take a shower. She'd told Quinn that he should take a shower, but Quinn said that Sam was sleeping.

Sam was sleeping a lot.

She was also kind of happy because they had stopped at the mini-grocery store, and she'd gotten one of those cups of noodles. Then Quinn had put her hand in the noodles and made them warm. They made Brittany think of home, where her mom always made her noodles when she didn't feel good. But she didn't want to think about her mom, because that just made her sad again.

"Hey," Artie turned to look at her, and squeezed her hand. "You doing okay?"

"Yeah," Brittany said. She smiled at him. He was so cute. Whenever he looked at her, he looked like he was staring at the most beautiful thing on earth. Brittany had never been with anyone who thought she was the most beautiful thing on earth. Mostly they just wanted to put their ding-a-lings between her legs. Even Santana never said she was beautiful, and Santana was her best friend.

"Artie, are we going home?" she asked. Artie smiled at her and squeezed her hand again.

"Yeah, Brittany," he said. "We're going back home."

"Good," Brittany looked out the window again. Her tummy hurt, kind of like when Coach made them drink the funny milkshakes that made her have to go to the bathroom. "Artie," she said again. "Do you still have the magic comb?"

"No," Artie said. "Remember. . .I told you, the comb wasn't magic. You're magic."

"Oh yeah," Brittany said. Artie was always so nice to her.

Quinn and Puck were sitting in the front seat. Puck was trying to get Quinn to like him again, but Quinn didn't want to like him. Quinn was really sad. . .even sadder than Kurt, and Kurt thought his heart was broken. Brittany knew, because when they had stopped at the mini-grocery store, Kurt hadn't even picked up moisturizer. And she knew Quinn was sad because she wasn't making fun of Puck.

Sam was sleeping a lot. Except not right then, because Santana was shaking him and swearing.

"Yo, Satan, keep it down!" Puck yelled.

"Sure thing, dickweed," Santana said. "I'll just tell Sam to quit _bleeding_ out of his _nose_ and his _ears_ and his fuckng _eyes_, how does that sound?"

"What?" Quinn squealed, and jerked her hand on the wheel. The car started driving funny. Artie gripped his chair, and Brittany remembered that it had been a bad car that meant he couldn't walk any more. But now he could walk again, so he shouldn't be afraid of cars anymore. She turned around. Santana was ripping up Sam's shirt, and pressing it to his face. Sam looked funny with a ripped shirt, and ripped things on his face. That wasn't good, because Sam didn't like to look funny. Sam wanted to be popular. That's why he was dating Quinn.

Not like Artie. Artie was dating _her_ because he thought she was beautiful.

"What the fuck?" Puck leaned over and grabbed the wheel, as Quinn spun around entirely, not paying any attention to the way the car was tilting off one wheel. Quinn looked kind of crazy. Brittany took a deep breath. Her throat hurt.

And then the car wasn't moving any more, and that was good. But Quinn was still trying to climb into the backseat, and Puck was still trying to pull her back by the collar of her jacket. And Sam's face was all red now, and Santana looked kind of freaked.

Then the front door opened, and Finn looked inside. That was good. Finn would take charge. Brittany liked when somebody else took charge, because it made her head hurt less. And, sure enough, Quinn climbed out of the front seat to talk to Finn.

"Do you think Finn is Superman?" Brittany asked Artie. Because Finn didn't get sick when everyone else did, and he was really tall, so maybe he was an alien. But Artie shook his head, and she knew she could trust her boyfriend.

Something loud hit the top of the car, and then the side door was pulled open, and Blaine's kind face was peering in at them. Brittany liked Blaine. He seemed nice. She wanted to pet his eyebrows.

"Come on out," he said, and chivalrously extended his one arm. It was sad that he only had one arm, now. Brittany wanted to ask how he was going to brush his teeth, but Artie said that was rude. So without petting anything, she undid her seatbelt and climbed out of the car, before turning around to help her boyfriend out. Artie wanted to sit down, because his legs were still wobbly like Bambi, and Brittany thought sitting was a good idea, too, because when they sat down everything stopped moving and the trees stopped walking.

Blaine walked back to the other van while Finn and Puck crawled into the back and came out carrying Sam. Quinn just stood around them. She didn't help at all, which wasn't like Quinn, because normally Quinn liked to take charge.

"Is he going to be okay?" she asked. "What's wrong with him?"

"I don't know!" Santana said, and she sounded exasperated. Mr. Schue had taught Brittany that word. Exasperated means when he was trying to explain something and Brittany didn't understand it. That was what exasperated meant. "Nobody knows, Quinn. It's probably from those bombs, again."

"Here," Puck handed Quinn a bottle of water. "Sit down, take a breather. You're major stressed out, and it's not going to help anybody."

"I think that I have a right to be stressed out, Puckerman," Quinn snapped. "My boyfriend is bleeding to death in front of me and I can't do anything about it!"

Puck didn't answer. He just went to the back of the van and started looking for something. Brittany was feeling drowsy (that was another big word, but it just meant sleepy), so she leaned her head against Artie's shoulder. His other arm moved around her like a snake and pulled her closer.

"Are you okay?" he asked her. He kind of asked it into her hair, though, so it came out sounding all muffled and funny. Brittany smiled.

"I'm sad," she said. "About Mercedes. And now Sam is sick. And I think Mr. Schuester went to Nationals without us."

"Yeah," Artie said. "Maybe."

Now Blaine came back, and he just kept pointing at Sam. Brittany couldn't understand what he was saying, because of the sleepiness, but every time he pointed, Finn or Santana would do something. Finn would pinch Sam's nose, or Santana would prop up his head. But then Blaine said something else, and Santana got real angry. She stood up and pushed him. But that was okay. Boys weren't supposed to push girls, but girls could push boys. Brittany was pretty sure that was how it worked.

Except that when Santana pushed him, he tripped going backwards, and he fell down. And when he fell down he didn't get up. Probably because he only had one arm, and couldn't get up. She woke up a little bit, because Artie got all tense, and his muscles did the crawly thing they did whenever he wanted to get up. Kurt had wandered over, but he didn't do anything. He just looked down at Blaine lying on the ground.

"You okay?" he asked. Blaine shuddered a little. He was talking to the worms when he said, "I'll be fine, just give me a minute."

So Kurt gave him a minute with his worm friends and went over to talk to Quinn. That was nice. They were friends, and Quinn was really sad. She kept crying, and trying not to let anyone see, but the cuff of her shirt was all wet, and her nose was red. Her eyelashes were sticking together, too.

Finn knelt down and helped Blaine up, and then Santana came over, too, and did something Brittany had never seen her do.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I should never have done that. I shouldn't have. . .but you shouldn't have just said that he's going to die. He's not going to die. We're going to save him."

Brittany picked a little bit of grass up from the ground. It smelled good, so she put it on her lap. She thought Blaine was probably crying, too, because his nose was red, and his eyes were squishy. "You're right," he said. "You stopped the bleeding. That's step one."

Puck finally came back from behind the van. That was good. Brittany had thought that maybe the van had eaten him. She was starting to not like the van at all. She didn't feel good when they were in it, not at all, but she was feeling better now that they were outside and the grass smelled good and Artie kept running his fingers through her hair. She felt like a golden retriever. They were her favorite dogs.

Puck was carrying a big blanket. He walked over to Quinn, and wrapped it around her.

"What are you doing?" she asked, but she didn't sound like Mean Cheerleader Quinn, she just sounded confused. "I'm not cold."

"It's not for the cold," Puck said. He checked that the blanket was entirely around her, and then he stepped forward and gave her a hug.

Oh. That was nice. Quinn stopped crying, and actually started to smile. Then she burrowed her face into the blanket, and Brittany couldn't see her face anymore. But she saw Santana's face, and Santana seemed really angry. She saw Rachel's face, too, and Rachel looked like she was watching a movie. Mike's face looked green.

Finn coughed awkwardly, and Quinn and Puck both looked over at him. So did everyone else. Except maybe Artie. Brittany couldn't see Artie's face, because he was sitting behind her, but she thought that he probably looked over, too, because it was the polite thing to do and Artie was almost always polite. That was because he was the best boyfriend ever.

It was hard to look at Finn for too long, though, because her eyelids were really heavy and kept wanting to close. But she made them stay open because she didn't want to be rude.

"I know it's kind of early," Finn said. "But the GPS says that there's a hotel just down this road. Maybe it would be a good idea to stop for the night."

"I don't know. . ." Puck muttered.

"I thought we were going to drive all night, and get to Lima as soon as possible," Kurt said. "That really seems like the best idea."

"We don't want to move Sam too much right now," Blaine explained. "We don't know exactly what's wrong with him, but it might be some kind of internal injury. We'll stop and look if there's a doctor. At least we're near a town, this time, instead of the middle of nowhere."

"But the hotel. . ." Puck still seemed unsure.

"What's wrong, Puck?" Santana sneered. "Too high class for you? You'd rather slum it with bedbugs and prostitutes?"

Puck shook his head. "No. . .but that would be awesome! But Finn. . .zombies. . ."

Finn suddenly looked really scared. "Oh my gosh," he said. "I didn't think of that. There are _always_ zombies in the hotels!"

Rachel rolled her eyes. "Don't be ridiculous. There's no such thing as zombies. And Finn, I think that's a very good idea, to stop for the night. I'll drive."

Brittany helped Artie up, and whispered to him, "do you think there are zombies?"

Artie shook his head. "No," he said honestly. "And if there were, you wouldn't have to worry. You're too beautiful for zombies to eat."

Brittany smiled as they got back into the van, even though her tummy started yelling at her as soon as she sat down. She really did have the bestest boyfriend in the entire world.

**A/N: The next chapter is one of my favorites, so get excited!**

**Coming soon: Santana seeks comfort from another Gleek, Finn finds out what it truly means to be a leader, Brittany and Mike get into trouble at the hotel, Rachel has a breakdown and, in only three chapters, Sue Sylvester makes her first appearance! (WHOOOOOOOOOO!)**

**Also: Kurt continues to be a boob, Quinn and Sam have a moment, and Tina tunes in to some awesome jams **


	18. Zombies

**A/N: First off, my apologies for the lack of updates. My laptop is broken. . .in the shop, now. . .so don't count on regular updates for awhile.**

**Also, it had the next chapter on it. My all-time favorite. . .sigh. . .but, rather than just posting an author's note to explain why there weren't any updates (because I hate those – they drive me crazy!) I provide for you a kind of . . .inter-chapter. So it's kind of unnecessary, and doesn't add a whole lot, but. . .hey, it's something, right?**

The hotel didn't really look fancy at all. It actually looked kind of lame. Not much better than the Motel 6's that his mom always made them stay in whenever they went on one of the dumbass family vacations. At least it probably had a pool, Puck thought. And a fitness room. He was beginning to feel some serious flab from all the days just sitting around doing nothing.

As Quinn pulled in, however, a horrible thought occurred to him. In the movies, there were three places to avoid after the apocalypse. Number 1, WalMart, since apparently the zombies took over megastores first. Number two, carnivals, because the worst kind of zombies are clown zombies. Number three, however, was hotels. Every single room could house a zombie.

Everybody started to climb out of the van, stretching arms and glad to be free. Puck made sure that he was the first one out. He ran over to Finn's car, and grabbed the other boy by the arm.

"Wait!" he said urgently. "We can't just walk in there. We'll be targets!"

"What do you mean?" Finn asked, screwing his face up in confusion. The other kids were all congregating between the two vans, though Blaine remained patiently beside them.

"Zombies, dude!" Puck glanced nervously at the hotel. Finn frowned.

"I don't know," he said slowly. "I'm beginning to think that the girls might be right. There might really not be any such things as zombies."

Puck knew what he had to wait. Finn was not as smart as him – in all honesty, Finn wasn't as smart as anyone, except maybe Brittany. He just had to let the idea percolate. And, sure enough, after a minute, Finn sighed.

"Better safe than sorry, right?"

Blaine laughed. "You two are ridiculous. There is absolutely no such things as zombies."

"But what if there is?" Finn asked earnestly.

"We've got to keep the womenfolk outside," Puck said seriously. After all, this was a job for men. Macho men. Blaine chuckled again.

"No offense, but I think some of the girls might have more balls than the two of you put together," he said. "Quinn, for instance." Puck considered.

"Or Santana," Finn said.

"But that's not the point," Puck insisted. "They have boobs and stuff. We're supposed to keep them safe. That's our job."

"That is incredibly sexist," Blaine pointed out.

And sure, maybe it was sexist, but Puck could deal with it. After all, there were some things that girls were supposed to do, and some things guys were. Like dudes were absolutely not supposed to be nurses. Or kiss other dudes, for that matter. Puck glanced sideways at Blaine. He was down with the rainbow, and all that, but his experience with the gays had been restricted to Kurt – which meant that he was pretty sure that all gay guys were supposed to basically be girls.

Maybe Blaine wasn't really gay. Then again, he did sing in glee club. And sure, Puck sang in glee club, but just to get the ladies. That made it manly.

"Hey," Quinn said, walking over to them. "I think we should split up."

"No way!" Puck yelled. Splitting up was the kiss of death when there were zombies around. Quinn and Blaine both raised one eyebrow. They looked identical, and Puck decided that the other boy probably really was gay.

"I think it's a good idea," Finn said, somewhat surprisingly. He glanced at Puck, and gave an exaggerated wink. "You and the girls should take Sam to the hospital. We'll explore and set up rooms."

"Okay. . ." Quinn frowned. "It's not going to take all of us to drive to the hospital, though."

"Yeah, guys. Why do they _all_ have to go?" Blaine asked archly. Puck sneered.

"You should go, too, Hobbit," he said. "I mean. . .you've only got one arm."

Blaine pouted. Actually pouted! Ha! Puck grinned. He was feeling a little more badass already.

"Santana and I will drive Blaine to the hospital," Quinn said. "Everybody else can stay here."

"Hold on," Artie said. He was limping over, hanging heavily on Mike's shoulder. "Brittany hasn't been feeling well. It might just be motion sickness, but if you're going to the doctor anyway, we'd like to come."

"Tina's been having headaches," Mike added.

Puck considered. "Okay," he said. "Tina can go to the doctors, but Mike, you have to stay here."

"Why?"

Puck _was_ going to point out that they would need all the muscle that they could get to fight off the zombies, but Quinn and Blaine were still giving him _that look_. So he just shrugged. "Cuz you won't all fit in the van."

"We'll fit," Quinn said dryly, before motioning to everyone else to come. Blaine, irritatingly, just continued to stand there, smiling like a little girl on Christmas.

"Shouldn't you be going with them?" Puck asked. Blaine just shrugged his shoulders.

"No room in the van, remember?" he said. "Now come on. It'll be nice to sleep on a real bed for once, even if it is lice-infested."

Puck realized that this was going to be pretty epic. After all, if there _were_ zombies, it was going to be just him and Finn fighting them off. Two best friends, reunited in the service of good. They should totally get a video game made of them after this.

He saw a pair of shovels lying out by the shed, just to the side of the hotel. He ran to grab them, and dashed back before Rachel had opened the front door. He would have whacked Kurt upside the head with one of the shovels, had Blaine not yanked on the other boys sleeve, pulling him back from danger.

"Wait!" Puck panted. "Don't go in yet?"

"Why not?" Rachel asked.

"Finn and I have to make sure it's safe," Puck explained. "We'll scope it out for danger."

"Why wouldn't it be safe?" Kurt asked. "I mean, there's always the danger of lice, but I hardly see you and Finn being capable of doing laundry, let alone decontaminating a mattress."

Puck didn't even try to figure out what that meant. "Whatever. Ladies stay outside. Finn and I will cover this."

Surprisingly, Kurt and Blaine both moved to follow them in. Finn didn't seem to notice, but Puck did. Yup, the Puckster had eyes of fucking. . .uh. . .awesomeness.

"We're not girls," Kurt pointed out. Puck just continued to glare at him, until Kurt sighed and stepped back. "Fine," he said. "I'll wait with Rachel while you ignoramuses get it out of your system."

"Yeah," Puck agreed. "Wait. . .what did you call me?"

"Come on," Blaine said. "Let's just get this over with."

Puck was so busy trying to figure out what Kurt had said that he didn't notice that Blaine had come with.

The lobby seemed pretty safe. Puck hefted his shovel threateningly. The zombies had probably seen them, and now were running scared. Yeah, that's ride, gross undead people. The Puckster was in town.

"What's this?" Blaine was standing by the counter, holding up a sheet of paper. He was looking kind of confused, and Puck thought that maybe his superpower was brain damage, because it wasn't hard to recognize a sheet of paper.

"Gone to Westerville," Finn read over the other boy's shoulders. "Looking for other survivors. The UCLA Men's Glee Club."

"Huh," Puck said. "Why would they be here?"

"Midwest Tour," Blaine said. "But this is good news! It means that there are plenty of other people still alive!"

Puck shrugged, because really, as long as hot girls were alive (Quinn, Santana, Britanny, and even Rachel, sometimes, so – check) and he had his best buddy (Finn, check) he'd be okay. Oh, and his mom and bratty little sister. He hoped they were okay, too.

"Come on, that's boring," Puck said. He left the other two boys behind, and went to open one of the guest rooms. And instantly really wished he hadn't. He dropped the shovel on the ground, where it fell with a muffled _thump_.

"What is it? What's wrong?" Finn hurried behind him. "Is it vampires?"

But it wasn't a vampire, or a zombie, even though Puck really, really wished it was. Instead, lying on the hotel's large bed, was a middle-aged woman, holding a little girl in her arms. Finn and Puck stood stock still in the doorway, but Blaine pushed past them and entered the room, putting one finger to the little girls' neck.

"Are they. . ."

"Yeah," Blaine looked up at them. Puck totally would have made fun of the other guy for crying, but he was pretty sure that his eyes were wet, too. The girl couldn't have been more than six years old.

Finn walked into the room, and stood uncomfortably over the bed for a long moment, before finally leaning down and scooping the girl into his arms. Puck felt like puking.

"Dude, why are you touching a dead body?" he asked. Finn just turned to look at him and shrugged.

"I don't want Rachel to see this," he said simply. Puck tried to swallow past something stuck in his throat, because he got it. He totally got it. He didn't want Quinn, or Brittany, or even _Kurt_ to have to see this. He didn't want anyone to see it. . .wished he didn't see it himself. And, as he walked in further, he wished he didn't have to _smell_ it, either.

"I think I can grab the legs," Blaine said helpfully. Puck just grunted, and picked up the woman beneath the armpits. She didn't way much, and he probably could have carried her himself, but that would have required _touching_ her more, so he was more than a little relieved when Blaine twined his arm around the woman's ankles and lifted.

This was different than Lauren – they'd all been in shock, and hurt, and Puck was pretty sure that he'd spent most of the time out there in a feverish haze. It was different than Mercedes, too – she was their friend, and never once, while wrapping up her body, or putting it in the ground, had Puck really considered that it was a dead body. . .it was just Mercedes.

But this chick stunk, and she was a gross chalky color, and. . .

"Hold on, man."

Puck ignored Blaine's surprised squawk when he dropped the body. He leaned over into a potted plant and puked. Three Twinkies came up. Gross.

"Okay," Puck said, after wiping his mouth. "Let's go."

Blaine, thankfully, didn't say anything.

They put the bodies in the janitor's closet at the end of the hallway, and then went back to check the other rooms. Three of the fifteen had bodies in them, and with set faces and clenched jaws, they once by one moved those out of the way, too. Finn had just closed the door when Rachel and Kurt walked in, both looking pissed.

"Were you ever going to let us in?" Rachel asked. "Really, there's no such thing as zombies, can't you just stop pretending!"

"What is that repulsive smell?" Kurt asked, screwing up his nose.

Finn walked over to Rachel, and stared at her for a moment, before leaning down and engulfing her in a massive hug. Rachel remained standing for a moment, her spine rigid, before smiling and relaxing into the embrace.

"Thanks for being alive," Finn mumbled into her hair. Puck rolled his eyes. He thought he might puke again.

Blaine nudged Kurt in the side. "Come on," he said. "Help me bring in some of the stuff from the cars?"

"Hold on," Kurt said. "I'm picking out my room first. Have to make sure I get the best one!"

"Not the first one," Puck yelled. Kurt lifted one eyebrow, but listened, before flouncing to the third one. Puck thought. . .nope, they hadn't found a deady body in there.

"Okay," Kurt said, coming back out, a satisfied smile on his face. "They are all equally disgusting. Horribly decorated. Let's get the stuff."

Quinn and company arrived back shortly after they'd finished dragging in suitcases and food, which they set up, buffet-style, in the lobby.

"How'd it go?" Puck asked as he and Chang lifted Sam to carry him inside. Quinn just sighed and shrugged her shoulders.

"We couldn't find any open offices," she said sadly.

"And the hospitals just had a lot of sleeping people in them," Brittany said a little sadly. "They're going to sleep with Jesus."

Dinner was a somber affair. Kurt and Rachel tried to crack a few jokes about processed foods, but nobody answered them. Puck was kind of pissed off. . .they'd fixed up the hotel, but why bother? Everyone had already faced the hard reality of the situation, anyway.

Puck glanced over at Finn and Blaine, who were sitting next to each other on the couch, and he suddenly felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude. He was pretty sure that if those two had focused on themselves, instead of making sure that everyone else was hydrated and kept warm, they'd have done a lot better. Blaine would probably still have an arm. Finn wouldn't have those dark circles under his eyes.

"Hey, dudes," he said gruffly, looking up from his canned tuna. Finn and Blaine both turned to look at him, blank expressions on their faces. "I just want to say. . .thanks."

"For what?" Finn asked. Puck didn't know. . .he wasn't great with words. If they were back at school, he'd have picked up a guitar and sung. Except singing to two guys was kind of gay, and he didn't want to give Blaine the wrong idea. So instead of saying anything, he shrugged and just took another bite of his sandwich.

"Just. . .thanks."

The rest of the meal was completely silent, though Rachel and Kurt kept glancing around nervously. Quinn was the one who finally broke thorugh.

"Well," she said. "I guess we'd better get some sleep. It'll be a long drive back to Lima, tomorrow."

"Westerville," Blaine mumbled. Everyone turned to look at him.

"Blaine. . ." Rachel said slowly. "I know that you must be worried about your friends. . .but we're all from Lima, and I think, maybe for the good of the group. . ."

"No," Finn said, shaking his head. "Blaine's right. Look."

Rachel stared in shock at the note. Puck tried to explain.

"We know that there will be people alive there," he said. "It makes sense that other people would have gathered there. . ."

"My dad would have checked there," Kurt said anxiously. "He'd want to find out where I was, and his best bet would be Dalton."

"Okay," Quinn said, clearly dropping the topic. "That's fine. We'll go to Westervile tomorrow. We should still go to sleep now, though."

Puck didn't really disagree. So he and Finn pulled Sam into one room, and laid him out on the bed. Quinn, without a word, pulled the blankets around his shoulder, and then crawled in next to him, careful to keep the blankets between his body and her own.

"We shouldn't just leave them," Finn muttered. "If something goes wrong, Quinn can't do anything."

"I'll stay," Puck volunteered. He knew if he didn't, Finn or Blaine would stay, and that just wasn't fair. Puck might not have killed any zombies that day, but he sure as hell could still be a hero.

Still. It was kind of weird being in the room with just Quinn staring all lovey-dovey at Sam, so he headed back to the lobby, only to see that everyone else was grabbing their duffels.

"Come on, Mike," Tina said, grabbing her boyfriend's hand. Mike, however, held back a little.

"I don't know. . ." he said nervously. "I mean, end of the world and all that, but. . .I'm not sure I'm ready for that step, yet."

"I didn't mean. . ." Tina rolled her eyes. "Fine, never mind. Somebody else want to sleep with me?"

"I will," Rachel said. She mouthed "sorry" to Finn, but Puck was pretty sure she didn't really mean it. Sleeping with a guy in a hotel room. . .well, it carried expectations with it. Puck would know. He'd been there before.

"Hey, stud," Santana wrapped two arms around his middle, and whispered lowly into his ear. "Want some wanky-wanky before bed?"

And oh, Puck did. He really, really did. But Blaine and Finn were still standing in the room, and if he didn't volunteer. . .Santana's tongue darted out, and carefully licked down his ear. Puck shuddered.

"Sorry, San," he muttered. "I'm going to stay with Quinn."

Santana let go, and stepped back. She considered him for a moment before winking. "Your loss," she said.

And oh, Puck knew that. Hells yes, he did.

"Guess it's you and me, buddy," Finn said, throwing an arm around Mike's shoulder. They left, following after their girlfriends. Kurt and Blaine looked at each other kind of awkwardly.

"Well. . .good night," Blaine said finally. He turned to walk away, but Santana grabbed him by the arm.

"Mind if I join you?" she purred. Puck bristled. Was she trying to make him jealous? With a gay guy? That was just pathetic. And low. And kind of working.

"I don't know. . ." Blaine said. Ha! Santana's. . .charms. . .were useless on gay guys. Point for the Puckster! "I kind of want to be alone."

Santana peered at him for a moment. Or rather. . .peered. . .around him. . .kind of. Whatever. It was super weird. "No you don't," she said finally. "Trust me."

"Okay, fine," Blaine said finally, and they, too, disappeared.

So now it was just him. And Kurt. And Puck wasn't, like, a girl or anything, but it didn't take much to know that Kurt was looking hurt and disappointed.

"You going to be okay alone?" he asked. Kurt shrugged.

"I'm used to it," he said, before finally walking away.

**A/N: So what goes on between closed doors? We already know that Santana and Blaine have a certain chemistry. . .and Puck and Quinn **_**did**_** have a baby together. . .plus, Kurt decides **_**not**_** to stay in his room, and Rachel and Tina discover some disturbing truths. . .**


	19. Pillow Talk

**A/N: Thanks, as ever, for all of the reviews. I am absolutely floored by the response this story has received. . .I've officially hit over 1,000 people who regularly read every chapter, so thank you so much to everyone who keeps coming back, and a double thank you to those of you who take the time to write a review, or add it to your favorites list.**

**I'm still laptopless, but I decided to just rewrite the next chapter so that I can move on with the story. So I don't like it quite as much as the original chapter 19, but I'm still pretty satisfied with it. Enjoy!**

Quinn didn't know why Puck was there, she really didn't. Santana was the obvious choice for him to spend the night with, or if not her, with his football buddies. Or hogging a room to himself. She didn't know why he was there, sitting uncomfortably in one of the armchairs.

And it wasn't her business, either, she reminded herself. After all, she was with Sam. Beautiful, kind, considerate Sam, who never had a mean word to say about anyone, who accepted people as they were. Who was equally comfortable in a football uniform, or a pair of skintight, shiny, golden briefs. Romantic Sam, who had fake-proposed to her, and liked whispering endearments in Na'vi. Patient Sam, who understood that she wasn't ready for sex again, and respected her boundaries.

There was a reason she was with Sam, and not with a guy like Puck, who loved'em and left'em. And, as hard as he'd tried last year to be a good dad, he'd never worked nearly hard enough at being a good boyfriend.

So yes, Quinn had made her choice, and she was going to stick to it, even if that choice was unconscious, and prone to sporadic nosebleeds. Even if that choice was currently drooling in a highly unattractive manner.

Even if she could never reach out and touch him.

"You can have the other bed," Quinn said. She was still looking at Sam, but she was pretty sure that it was evident who she was talking to.

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah." She sighed, and reached out one hand to brush the hair out of Sam's face. She stopped herself. She couldn't help him for hurting him, and it sucked, it really, really sucked. "I'm just going to sleep here, I think."

"Okay."

The rustle of sheets being pushed aside, and then the soft springy sound as a body settled itself down. Quinn thought that maybe there were done for the night, that maybe Puck was going to leave well enough alone. Because really, she was doing pretty well tonight.

"You could always join me, if you want," Puck said, and even though Quinn didn't turn around, even though all the lights were off, she was pretty sure that she could see the leer on his face, the way his full lips were turned up slightly. It would be so easy. That was the thing with Puck. It was never complicated, was never hard. It was physical and simple, and easy.

Except that nothing was going to be physical and simple again.

"Don't be stupid, Noah," she said. "Unless you have a sudden death wish, you know that's a bad idea."

"Hey," he said. "There are worse ways to go."

Quinn smiled at that. She couldn't help herself. She put one hand under her cheek, and closed her eyes.

"Good night, Noah."

"Night, Quinnie."

GLEE!

Finn was secretly glad that he was rooming with Mike for the night. Sure, it would have been nice to have been with Rachel – during the night he could probably even have gotten in a good boob graze or two – but he knew that if anything happened, it would just be the result of him taking advantage of her distress, or despair, or whatever. That was probably a pretty dick move, and Finn was really enjoying this new side of his that was full of leadership and not so full of dickness.

So it was probably good that he wasn't in a room with her. Also, Finn had never told anyone – and, okay, Kurt had found out, when they'd been sharing a room – but he didn't really so much like the dark. At least not sleeping in it. He blamed this on the fact that whenever he'd complained to his mom about the monster under his bed or in his closet, she'd just laughed. She hadn't checked – not even once – and Finn still couldn't shake the feeling that something was watching him.

So, yeah, when he was home, he slept with a night light. But obviously there weren't nighlights in hotels, and he didn't want Puck or anyone to find out that he slept with one, so he couldn't very well go to the store to get one. So really, it was just as well that he got to share a room with Mike Chang, who was like a life-sized night light. Finn fell asleep moments after crawling into bed.

Mike Chang, on the other hand, wasn't quite sure how he felt about the arrangements. He was glad he wasn't with Tina. He loved her, he really did, but sometimes she kind of scared him. The Chang household was clearly more strictly Chinese than the Cohen-Chang household, and Mike just didn't feel as. . .sexually liberated as his girlfriend. So he was glad that they weren't sharing a room (and thus, possibly, a bed), and he was glad that he wasn't feeling pressured.

On the other hand, Finn snored. Loudly.

GLEE!

Blaine wasn't entirely certain how he felt about sharing a room with a girl. On the one hand, in his experience, girls loved sharing rooms with gay guys. They felt safe, and unjudged, and for some reason found a greater thrill in it than just rooming with a girlfriend. But Santana wasn't exactly like the other girls he'd met, and Blaine was beginning to think that she had no idea what respectful boundaries were. So he was very careful to lock the bathroom door behind him while he showered, and was very careful to make sure that he brought his pajamas with so he could change into them after.

He took off his shirt slowly, forcing himself to look into the mirror the whole time. It wasn't easy, pulling the fabric off with just one arm, trying not to jostle his other shoulder too much. There was still a dull ache there every minute of every day, reminding him of what he'd lost. And when he hit it, a sharp pain radiating down through his chest, and across a phantom arm and ghost fingers that he no longer possessed. He'd never noticed before how many muscles he used just to pull a shirt over his head.

"There," he whispered, still staring at his face in the mirror. "That wasn't so bad now, was it?"

Taking his pants off was harder, physically, but also easier. He kicked them aside, and forced himself to face his own reflection, the pale, scared stranger staring back at him. He reached up, and began untying the bandage.

As long pieces unraveled, he found it harder to breathe. Because until that last piece of gauze came off, he could still pretend. It was stupid, of course – he knew, logically, that there was no way an entire arm could fit under that wad of bandage, no matter how thick it was. But just because he knew it logically didn't mean that there wasn't some part of him, some wildly illogical part, that didn't hope it was still possible.

The last piece of gauze tumbled to the floor. Blaine's breath was coming in a thin, reed whistle. Back in the bedroom he could hear Santana humming as she got ready for bed.

Get a grip, Blaine.

He turned on the shower, and stepped into it. This, at least, was rejuvenating. The warm water felt heavenly on his skin, and as long as he kept his injured side out of the direct path of water, nothing hurt. He closed his eyes. Maybe everything wouldn't be so bad if he could just stay in the shower. . .or if he filled up the tub, and just sank below it. . .or just a few cuts from a razor blade. . .

His eyes jerked open when he heard the sharp rapping on the bathroom door. "Don't use up all the hot water, pipsqueak!" Santana yelled. Blaine nodded. Right. Reality. He turned off the faucet and stepped out. He was dripping straight onto the hotel floor, but he didn't care. He didn't really think anyone else would, either.

The towel provided a bit of difficulty, and Blaine finally gave up trying to get dry. He swatted at all of the most important bits, and then pulled on his boxers and pajama shorts. The t-shirt would have to wait until his hair had stopped dripping down his back.

Santana whistled when walked out, but Blaine was pretty sure that it was more reflex than anything else. He was too skinny, and too pale, and he was missing an arm, for Christ's sake. And he was gay, so he really didn't know what she was aiming for.

"It's all yours," he said. Santana grinned wickedly.

"No big deal," she said. "I'm more of a morning showerer, anyway."

Of course she was. Blaine sighed, and made his way over to one of the beds. He'd been intending to clean up a little bit, maybe look at a map and figure out the quickest way to get home, but he was too tired. Too tired to even bother putting the shirt back on, so he just crawled under the covers. Santana, apparently agreeing with him, turned off the lights. A moment later, however, she crawled into bed beside him.

"Um. . .I know that we've had this conversation, but. . .you know that being gay means that I like guys, right?"

Despite his words, she was moving in closer to him, close enough that he could feel her body heat radiating off her in waves. When she spoke, her breath tickled his ear.

"I don't like to be alone," she said. Blaine could understand that – he wasn't a huge fan of loneliness himself – part of the reason he loved Dalton Academy so much. Then her arms snaked around his middle and her lips began to attack his ear. It wasn't. . .bad. . .exactly, but Blaine wasn't really sure where she was going with this, and there were certain things he couldn't, and wouldn't reciprocate.

"Stop," he said, and there must have been something forceful in his tone, because she did stop.

She didn't do anything else for several minutes, and Blaine began to feel himself drifting off to sleep. And maybe if he just pretended that those arms belonged to someone else. . .that the body pressed against his was a bit firmer. . .

"Kurt's in love with you."

And whoa, that was enough to wake Blaine up again, because that was so far from what he expected to hear come out of the girls' mouth. He tried to turn to face her, which somehow meant that their legs got tangle together, and now his arm was resting over her waist.

"What?"

"He's in love with you. He told Mercedes."

Blaine considered this for a moment. After all, Kurt was nothing if over-dramatic, and it was fully possible that in a fit of histrionic psychosis he had blurted out things he didn't mean. After all, Finn had already clued Blaine in to Kurt's profession of "honestly loving" him (him Finn, that was, not him, Blaine). And Blaine had heard Kurt loudly declaring his love for Alexander McQueen more than once, so it wasn't as if he wasn't vocal about it.

"it doesn't matter," he said, after giving it some consideration. That, however, struck a chord in Santana, who quickly disentangled her legs and pulled back her arm. She turned her back, and scooted toward the edge of the bed.

"I'm sorry," Blaine said, a bit confused. "Did I do something wrong?"

"It's just. . .you're such a dick," Santana said. "I thought maybe you were different. . .I mean, Kurt loves you, and you're gay, but seriously, all guys are just pricks."

Blaine didn't say anything in response. He'd learned over the years that silence was the best way to keep somebody talking. Sure enough, after a beat and a skip, Santana went on.

"He loves you, and it doesn't matter. It should matter, though. If you know. . .if it's obvious. . .then it should matter."

"This isn't about Kurt," Blaine said, feeling a little relieved, because now he was back in territory that he understood. "It's about Puck, isn't it."

"No," Santana said fiercely. "It's about Kurt, and how he keeps throwing himself at you, and you keep hurting him, and he keeps going back for more."

"Mmm-hmmm," Blaine was trying to buy himself time, because he knew that he had to be very careful with what he said next. "Maybe I'm not sure Kurt's ready for a relationship, because he hasn't shown me that he's willing to fight for one."

"Maybe you don't want a relationship so there's nothing worth fighting for."

And, ouch, that one kind of stung, even though Blaine was pretty sure that they were talking about her and Puck. He was pretty sure, but not 100% sure, and didn't really see why she'd brought Kurt up in the beginning at all. He stared up at the ceiling. His eyes were beginning to adjust to the dark, and if he turned to his right, he could see the bundle of blankets that signified the cheerleader.

"Kurt thinks that I ran away from bullies," he said. And this wasn't going to be easy – this was going to be really fuckin' hard – but he decided to tell her the truth. Because she needed to hear it, and because it would help her, and also, because if Blaine was being honest, he needed to tell someone. And he certainly couldn't tell Kurt, and Finn wouldn't understand, and they were pretty much the only friends he had.

"I didn't, though. Not the way he thinks." Santana shifted a little, and then turned to look at him. Her eyes shone in the dark. "I could handle it at school. I wasn't as. . .flamboyant, as Kurt, and I played sports. I was better at fighting back. Bruises and black eyes didn't bother me, because they weren't that different from bruises and black eyes from soccer, or lacrosse.

"I came out to my friends when I was twelve years old, but I didn't tell my parents until I was fourteen. I used to come home with blood caked on my face, and when my mom asked what happened, I'd just tell her that I took a stick to the face, or ran into the goal. Something stupid. And then we'd sit down at dinner, and Dad would look at the newspaper, and complain about all the gay rights issues, and all the fags in the media, and the dykes in politics, and homos trying to take over the banks. So I didn't tell them.

"And then we were looking at high schools, and I wanted to go to Carmel, which wasn't technically our school district, but it had a great glee club, and better academics than the local school. And Mom volunteered to drive me. And then Dad said he thought it sounded great, as long as I didn't join that gayass glee club."

Blaine paused for a moment. Santana was biting her bottom lip, staring at him.

"I go to church every Sunday," she said. "I care about my grades, and I want to be a doctor. But nerds get slushees in their faces at my school, so I cheerlead, and I sleep with guys, because it makes me popular."

Blaine nodded.

"Did you join the glee club?"

"No. I didn't. But I got a boyfriend, and I brought him home, and I introduced me to my parents."

"If I'm mean, then people don't get to know me," said Santana. "And if they don't know me, they can't dislike me."

"They didn't speak to me for a week. A whole week. So I asked to go to Dalton, and they shipped me off. I didn't run away from bullies at school. I ran away from my parents."

Santana reached out, and clasped Blaine's hand. She threaded her fingers through his, and then scooted next to him. "Kurt loves you," she said sincerely. "He won't care that you have horrible parents. He won't care that you don't come from the same type of place that you do. He loves you."

"He loves the idea of a relationship," Blaine said. "I deserve better than that."

"Me, too," Santana said, and she curled into him, almost catlike. "You want to rethink being gay?" she asked. "Because really, we'd be pretty perfect for each other."

Blaine laughed. "Yeah," he said. "We're pretty messed up. I try to be perfect so people like me, and you try to be a bitch so they don't."

"Well," Santana said, leaning up and kissing him squarely on the lips,. "You know what they say. Opposites attract."

Blaine smiled. "You're a pretty good kisser," he said.

"I know."

GLEE!

Rachel watched as Tina brushed her hair. The Asian girl was very meticulous. That was good – good hygiene was essential for stars, and excellent hair brushing habits distributed natural oils to improve sheen. She approved.

Tina kept glancing at her through the mirror. Most likely she was wondering why Rachel was peering at her so intently. Rachel had a reason, of course – an ordered life and ordered thought process yielded the greatest results. She was trying to decide whether she and Tina were friends.

They'd been in Glee Club together, back before it was cool – not that it was exactly cool now, but they'd been there before Finn, Puck, and Quinn had given it a semblance of normalcy. Sometimes they walked down the hallways together. And Tina had been friends with Mercedes, who was friends with Kurt, who was friends with Rachel, so by four degrees of separation they were friends.

And friends told each other things, right? Secret things, like their hopes, dreams and fears. Because Rachel had a massive fear weighing on her heart, and she was pretty sure that Finn wouldn't get it, and Kurt would look down on her which left her with. . .well, Puck, maybe, but she certainly wasn't ever going to tell him a fear.

"Tina, we're friends, right?"

"Of course we are," Tina said, putting down the brush and turning to smile at her. Rachel blinked twice. Sometimes she forgot just how nice Tina was, how completely selfless and kind.

"Could you do a favor for me, then?" Tina nodded her head. Rachel took a deep breath. "Could you sing something for me? Anything really, just a few bars. I want to test a theory."

"What?" Tina asked. "Why can't you just sing yourself?" Rachel took a deep breath, and screwed her eyes shut.

"Please," she said softly. "I'll explain everything, I promise."

"Okay." Tina frowned, clearly trying to decide upon a song.

"_When you feel all alone_

_ And the world has turned its back on you_

_ Give me a moment, please, to tame your wild, wild heart_

_ I know you feel like the walls are closing in on you_

_ It's hard to find relief, and people can be so cold_."

It was hardly the song that Rachel would have picked, but she could admit that the lyrics were particularly apt for their current situation. She listened to the few bars with her eyes tightly closed, straining to identify the key, listening for pitch patterns, anything.

She couldn't, though. They words sounded pretty but she simply couldn't tell if they were coming out flat, sharp, or perfect.

"Thank you," she said, interrupting Tina before the other girl could start on the second verse. "Just one more favor, then – listen."

Tina was frowning now, biting her lip. "I don't know, Rach," she said slowly. "I have a really bad headache. . .can this wait for the morning?"

"No!" Rachel said, a bit more loudly than she meant. Tina winced, and covered her ears. Rachel carefully modulated her voice. "No," she said. "It can't wait until tomorrow. This is really important."

"Well. . ." Tina bit her lip. "Okay."

Rachel hadn't even finished the second note when Tina started to groan. She leaned down, putting her head between her knees, and shaking. Rachel frowned. It was worse than she'd imagined.

She'd completely lost her sense of pitch.

GLEE!

Kurt tried to go to sleep, he really did. But between having to sleep in the grimy hotel room, without even his own pillowcase to protect himself against the inherent dangerous of bedbugs and lice, and in a room that was eerily quiet, he just couldn't.

He was the only one alone, and even though he'd told Puck that he was fine with it, he wasn't. What was wrong with him, that nobody wanted to sleep in the same room as him? He thought he'd moved beyond that. . .he thought that Dalton had given him new confidence, but it had only taken an atomic bomb or two to shake that new strength.

Okay, so maybe atomic bombs were a tremendously big deal.

When almost an hour had passed and he was still unable to sleep, he decided to go for a late night stroll. At home, when he couldn't sleep, he would open his mother's dresser, and pretend that she was still there with him. At Dalton, he would pad down the hallway, and inevitably find some other late night wanderer. He could always go into the music room and sit down with the piano, if nothing else.

In an empty hotel, though, he didn't know what to do. Puck had expressly forbid him from entering any of the other rooms, or venturing onto the other floors. While normally Kurt did not deal well with unexplained prohibitions, Puck had on his "caring is sharing" face, and since that was such a novel expression, Kurt was unwilling to disregard it.

So he just walked down the hallway, listening in to the silence behind the doors. Finn was snoring loudly enough that he knew when he'd reached that door. He felt a brief pang of sympathy for Mike. Maybe there were some things worse than being alone.

The next door down had soft whispers escaping beneath the door. Curious, Kurt paused to listen.

"He loves the idea of a relationship. I deserve better than that."

Kurt would recognize that voice anywhere. It was the voice of his conscience, the voice he heard in his dreams, the voice he had recorded on his iPod, playing in endless loops. He held his breath, bit his tongue when he heard Santana replied. Her words were low, barely discernible even through the paper thin walls of the cheap motel.

"Me, too. You want to rethink being gay? Because really, we'd be pretty perfect for each other."

Kurt knew that he was breaking privacy rules and a thousand rules of etiquette, but he couldn't help it. He lowered himself quietly to the floor, pressed his cheek into the carpet. He missed whatever Blaine said next, but then he heard a sound that he knew well, from having practiced on the tender crook of his own elbow. A kiss.

"You know what they say. Opposites attract."

Kurt almost cried out. He almost did, but he bit his tongue, and tasted the coppery tang of blood.

"You're a pretty good kisser."

"I know."

They didn't say anything else after that, and when ten minutes had passed, Kurt had to assume that they'd fallen asleep. He sat up slowly. A single droplet of water fell off his nose, and stained his pajama pants. He hadn't realized that he was crying. He lifted a hand to brush the tears away. He just felt numb.

What did it say about him, that he and Blaine might be the only two gay guys left alive on the face of the planet, and Blaine would turn straight rather than be with him? Was he really so horrible? Was the idea of a relationship so very repulsive?

"No," he whispered to himself, surprised at how fierce the words came out sounding. "Screw this." He nodded his head, resolutely. He remembered the words that Blaine had first told him – you can refuse be the victim. And he would, for the first time. He refused to let Blaine make him think less of himself, refused to let Blaine dictate his self-esteem.

Kurt knew that he'd been behaving badly – to a certain extent, he had only himself to blame for Santana spending the night with the unrequited love of his life. He accepted this. He should have volunteered to room with Blaine, he should have helped his friend up after Santana had pushed him, he should have joined the zombie brigade, and he should have given Blaine support after the loss of his arm. Blaine blamed himself for Mercedes death, and Kurt should never have allowed him to do that.

But this was ridiculous. He was Kurt Hummel, and he was not going to allow himself to be pushed out of the limelight. He deserved Blaine, dammit, and he was going to fight for him. There was no way that skanky, bitchy, _female_ Santana was going to steal the most perfect boy on the planet away. For the first time in his life, without any backup, he was going to fight for what he wanted.

GLEE!

They slept in the same bed, cradling one another in their arms. There was something so innocent about that night, and it didn't take long for Artie to drift off into a dreamless sleep.

He was awoken something after midnight, though, when Brittany began shaking in his arms. Still half asleep, he thought that she might be cold, and tried to bundle the blankets on top of her.

"Hot," she muttered irritably, and pushed away at them. Artie realized that she was right. . .her skin was hot to the touch, slick with sweat. Suddenly panicked, Artie sat up and turned on the lights.

The pillow beneath his girlfriend's head was stained red, and he noticed a thin rivulet of blood ran out of one nostril, and her left hair. "Brittany," he whispered, shaking her shoulder, trying to wake her up. "Brittany, are you okay?"

"Hot," she muttered again, twisting away from him.

Artie didn't know what to do, didn't know what was wrong. This was so much worse than the last time. She was feverish again, only now she was bleeding like Sam, and. . .and what was it that Finn had done? Cold towels and liquids, and. . .Artie looked with despair at the bathroom. It wasn't so far away, except that the counter was so high, and he wasn't sure he could reach the doorknob, and dammit, why did he have to regain feeling in his legs when they were so weak that they couldn't even help him?

Brittany moaned again, and Artie realized that it was no time for pride. He flopped out of the bed, landing awkwardly on the floor. "Help!" he yelled, as loudly as he could, and started crawling toward the bathroom.

"Please! Somebody help us!"

**A/N: Just when things start looking up, they have to start looking down, too. Brittany appears to be relapsing. . .is everyone else in danger, too? Coming soon: the kids get back on the road, with renewed haste. Sam wakes up, Kurt decides to seize the day, Rachel grapples with her loss of identity, Tina struggles with a newfound problem, two other glee members become ill, and Sue Sylvester makes her appearance! (Spoiler. . .) **


	20. The Freezer

**A/N: Guess who finally got her computer back. . .this girl! And you know what that means. . .updates will become frequent once again! My goal is to finish this story by the Super Bowl, when I will have to accept that Puck/Quinn are not besties, and Blaine/Santana don't have a super weird relationship, and Finn/Blaine have never met, and Mike Chang doesn't glow.**

**Anyway, as you can tell, this chap is a little out of style for me, a bit choppier than usual, but I just really wanted to bang something out for y'all. Enjoy!**

Santana bit her lip, and tried not to cry. It wasn't really her thing, crying in front of people, but then again, she wasn't used to her best friend bleeding in front of her. She leaned down and put a hand against Brittany's forehead. It was burning hot.

"Get in the car, Finn," Blaine hissed, shoving the taller boy backward.

"I want to stay and help," Finn said stubbornly. "I helped you the first time. I can help again."

"I know you can," Blaine said. "But think about it, Finn. Brittany just relapsed. Sam and Mike have suspiciously similar nosebleeds. Tina's head is about to burst apart. What if everyone is getting sick again?"

"Even more reason for me to stay here," Finn said. "Look, dude, I know you're trying to be tough about the no arm thing, but what are you going to do if everyone gets sick?"

"What's going to happen if Quinn gets sick?" Blaine asked. Finn shrugged.

"Puck can drive."

"And what if Puck gets sick?"

"Rachel can drive."

"And what if Rachel gets sick?"

"Dude, I get the point," Finn said, throwing his hands up in the air. "But who's to say I don't get sick?"

"You didn't get sick the first time," Santana said. "The hobbit's hoping that means you won't get sick a second."

"Just go, Finn," Kurt said wearily, as he entered the room as well, one of Mike's arms slung around his shoulder. Santana looked at him critically. She really couldn't handle any more patients – three was more than enough, between Sam, Brit, and Mike – but she was a little worried that Kurt would be joining their ranks, soon. He was pale and exhausted looking. Even more telling, he hadn't done his hair, or changed his clothes from the previous day. Lurching a little, he lowered Mike into the other open bed in the room.

"Thanks," Mike said. He coughed, rasping into his fist. Santana saw the drops of blood that came away, though Mike tried to hide his hand under the pillow. He turned to glare at Finn. "I blame you, by the way. If you didn't snore so loud, maybe I would have gotten enough sleep and wouldn't be sick."

Finn ignored him, and looked back at Blaine. "Fine," he said. "I'll go. But I'll be back soon. With help."

Blaine put his hand on the other boys shoulder, and smiled. "That's what we're counting on."

And then everyone was gone. Santana frowned down at Brit. The pink glow that had surrounded her friend was subdued, quiet. She brushed a hand through blonde bangs, and Brit whimpered a little.

"What should I do?" Kurt asked. Santana shrugged. This was all way beyond her. But Blaine and Kurt were looking at her expectantly, and Brit's nose was still bleeding, and Mike was still hacking up blood, and she was absolutely not going to snap. Santana Lopez did not snap under pressure. She held the base of the pyramid, got all the hot guys, and still kept a 4.0 average. So she wasn't going to break.

"Go get Sam," she said. "Bring him in here. It will be easier to take care of them all if they're together."

That made sense. Kurt pranced off, and Blaine muttered something about getting water. Santana ignored them. She pinched Brittany's nostrils. Maybe they should have had Quinn take a look. . .she could have stuck her pinkie up everyone's nose, and cauterized whatever was bleeding. It was totally unfair that Quinn got such a badass mutation, and she had to deal with seeing colors. Lame.

"I feel bad for you," Mike said abruptly. Santana glanced at him, surprised. She wasn't the one hacking up blood. . .she was pretty sure that _she_ should be feeling sorry for _him_. She waited a moment, as Mike went through another coughing fit. If he hadn't been such a dick, she would have helped him sit up, opened the airway. As it was, she let him cough. Serve him right.

"I mean. . .if those were atomic bombs," Mike sighed, and snuggle ddeeper into the blankets. "I think I'd rather just die right now. Then wait for the atmosphere to get all f'ed up, and all the plants to die, and weird diseases to plague the land."

"Nobody's dying," Santana said. "unless you don't shut your trap. But trust me, it won't be radiation poisoning that kills you."

Mike didn't say anything else. He turned his face into the pillow and breathed in deeply. The worst was that he had a point. She knew he had a point – Mike was no dumby, they were in AP Chem together. But Coach Sylvester had always said that a defeatist attitude was the best way to lose ( also eating candy, getting boob jobs, using hair gel, and dressing in anything but the Cheerios uniform). And Santana didn't know what else to do.

She glanced at Brit's nose again, released the pressure. She waited a minute. No blood. So that was good. She held the back of her hand against her bestie's mouth, and felt intensely relieved at the soft brush of breath she felt. Losing Mercedes had been bad enough. She was pretty sure that losing Brittany would destroy her.

"Here's some water," Blaine said, returning to the room with a gallon of spring water. "They have a small kitchen out front. Not much, but. . ."

"Thanks." Santana grabbed two of the plastic glasses from the bathroom, and quickly filled up the two cups. She handed one to Blaine, and brought the other to Brittany. She dribbled the water against Brit's lips, not happy with how much splashed against skin. Brittany barely even swallowed.

Kurt returned a moment later, dragging Sam on the ground. He walked in backwards, the other boys' wrists clamped in his hand. Blaine jumped up immediately, and went to help, scooping up Sam's ankles. Together, the two boys deposited him on the bed next to Brittany.

"Thanks," Kurt said. "He was heavier than I thought."

Blaine frowned at the other boy. "No problem. . .are you feeling okay?" He shifted around the bed to stand next to Kurt. Santana watched as he lifted his hand, and brushed away the other boys' bangs. She saw what he saw doing, letting the back of his hand just flit against Kurt's forehead. Check for a fever. She bit her lip. They had to break the fever, somehow. . .cool Brittany down if she was going to have a chance.

Kurt flinched away from the contact. He raised his eyes defiantly, glaring at Blaine. "I'm fine," he said. "Just tired."

Santana pursed her lips. Hadn't Blaine said there was a kitchen. . .she glanced up at the two boys, and almost burst out laughing. Blaine looked completely befuddled and the look on Kurt's face. . .well, Santana had seen that look before, usually in the mirror. That was the "just fuck me already" look. She double-checked to make sure that Blaine was still wearing his pants.

"Is there a freezer in the kitchen?" she asked.

Both boys turned to look at her, and Kurt's face immediately morphed from "fuck me already" to "I'ma cutta bitch." Blaine, on the other hand, just looked relieved.

"Um. . .yeah. A walk-in," Blaine said. "Why?"

"Kurt, could you go grab some frozen stuff? Anything. . .peas, meat, whatever. We need to cool these guys down."

"Why me?" Kurt asked, crossing his arms across his chest. "Why not Blaine? You just want some more alone time with him?"

"He only has one arm, Streisand," Santana sneered. "He can't carry as much."

"I resent that," Blaine said mildly. "It's emasculating."

"It's true," Santana said. Kurt just rolled his eyes, and dramatically pushed his bangs out of his face.

"I'll get it," he said, and walked out of the room. Blaine, Santana noticed, watched him until he rounded the corner. He shook himself a little, and turned around. She must have been smirking because he frowned and asked what was going on in her twisted little mind.

"Nothing," she said. "I'll go get Tina. Try and get them to drink something."

Tina was right next door, curled up in a little ball on her bed. Santana stared down at her. They'd never been friends. In fact, she wasn't sure whether she'd ever said a word to the Asian girl in her life. Asian and Latina. . .they went together like oil and water. Still, Santana had to admit that it must suck to be sick. But Tina didn't. . .look. . .ill. She was still clothed in the same, almost angelic yellow light that had been there ever since she woke up. Santana looked closer. There wasn't the fuzziness that surrounded Mike, Brit, and Sam. She looked. . .fine.

"Tina?" she asked. "Asian? How you feeling?"

"Head hurts," Tina mumbled into her pillow, her eyes clenched tightly shut. "Make them stop."

"Stop what?" Santana looked around the room. They were completely alone.

"Stop talking. And singing. Just. . ."

Santana was pretty sure the other girl had started crying. That was awkward. She didn't really do sympathy. She was more the "suck it up or get out" type. Unless you were a guy, but she didn't think Tina wanted to be consoled in the same way that Puck did after a football loss. 95% sure, anyway. Because really, sexuality was a spectrum, and Santana, at least, was always up for experimentation. She just wasn't sure that Tina felt the same way.

"Well, hop up," Santana said. "We're going next door."

"Mkay."

Tina was surprisingly complacent, struggling to her feet. Sure, Santana had to slide an arm around her waist to help her walk, but they made it across to the other room. Santana gently deposited her in the bed.

"So," Blaine said, his tone conversational and pleasant. "Now what?"

Santana shrugged. "Where are Kurt and those peas?"

When Kurt didn't return in five minutes, Santana started getting annoyed, and Blaine appeared to be getting bored. When Kurt didn't return in ten minutes, Santana was getting pissed, and Blaine was clearly bored, flipping the window shades open and closed. When Kurt didn't return in fifteen minutes, Santana was downright irate.

"What is taking him so long? He just had to get some peas, not clean out the freezer!"

"Come on," Blaine said, taking her hand. "Let's just go see. Maybe he got lost."

The kitchen, it turned out, was just beyond the lobby. Santana was pretty sure that Kurt hadn't gotten lost. She was pretty sure even a moron wouldn't get lost. She didn't think even _Finn_ would have gotten lost. And there wasn't much to distract between the entrance to the kitchen and the walk-in freezer, so really, what the hell was Hummel doing?

Blaine walked over to the freezer, and yanked hard on the door. He was immediately enveloped in a cloud, as the cold air inside met with the warmer air outside. Santana tapped her foot impatiently.

"Kurt?" Blaine asked, taking a step forward, and then a moment later, more urgently, "Kurt!"

Both boys emerged, Kurt clutching a dozen packets of peas to his chest. His nose was bright pink, and his lips were. . .Santana frowned. . .his lips were a pale shade of blue. Blaine frantically grabbed the peas out of his arms, scattering several on the floor, and throwing the rest at Santana.

"I guess the freezer locks from the outside," Kurt said apologetically. "Sorry about that."

"Stop holding those!" Blaine said, swatting the last of the peas out of Kurt's hand. Santana was still staring at the boy strangely. His skin was all so pale, and he wouldn't stop shivering.

"Blaine, calm down," Kurt said. "Really, what's gotten into you?"

Blaine didn't answer, he just grabbed Kurt tightly and pulled him close to his chest. Santana raised an eyebrow. Was she about to get a show? Not that she was complaining, but someone should really be taking the frozen goods back to their friends.

"Kurt, you're shivering," Blaine whispered into the other boys' ear. "Your lips are freakin' blue, your nose is all red. . .aren't you _freezing_?"

"Oh." Kurt's face over Blaine's shoulder look contemplative, considering. "I can't really feel anything."

"You must be numb from the cold," Blaine said. "We have to get you warmed up. Come on."

Kurt made a funny little sound – kind of the weird meow cats made whenever Santana tried to stuff them into boxes – and wriggled his way free of Blaine's arm. "No," he said. "I'm not numb from the cold. I just can't feel anything."

One of Blaine's eyebrows lifted. Santana was pretty sure that happened, although the fuzzy caterpillars that rested above the boys eyes were sometimes a little hard to read. She settled herself back against the doorway. She kind of wished she had some popcorn, since she was pretty sure she was about to witness some epic gay porn.

"What do you mean, you can't feel anything?" Blaine reached out and grabbed Kurt's hand. He slowly massaged the fingers.

"I can feel pressure," Kurt said. "But that's it. No pain. No heat. No cold."

"Because of the. . ." Blaine's voice dropped away.

"I guess so."

Blaine looked up then, his eyes earnest. "Then you have to be careful, Kurt. Like, really careful. Your body won't give you all the warnings that you need to keep safe."

"Look, Blaine, it's not a big deal," Kurt said. "Let's just get the frozen stuff to Brit."

But Blaine wouldn't let him carry anything, standing guard over the peas on the floor until Santana came over and picked up whatever he couldn't. They walked back to the hotel room, Kurt still pouting and Blaine looking incredibly concerned.

Santana began packing the peas in around Brit, while Blaine ordered Kurt to sit next to the shower while he turned the heat on to maximum. And it wasn't that she was eavesdropping. . .it was just that the door was open, and since her love life was currently kaput (it seriously sucked that the hottest guy she could bang was hung up on an ex), she figured that she deserved it.

"Stop babying me, Blaine. I can take care of myself."

"I'm just worried about you."

"Well, don't. I'm an adult."

"It's just. . .this is serious, Kurt. It's not a joke."

"A lot of things aren't jokes. You losing an arm isn't a joke. Everybody being sick isn't a joke. Mercedes _death_ isn't a joke. Trust me, I get it. I can't feel anything, Blaine, I get it. I can't feel the warmth of a hug, I can't feel when you hold my hand, I can't. . .I've kissed a girl, and been lip-raped by a Neanderthal. I'll never feel a real kiss. So yeah, Blaine, I get it, and I know it isn't a joke. I can't feel, and trust me, I get it."

A long pause then. Santana felt Brit's forehead – a little cooler, so the peas must be working. She edged her way over toward the bathroom door. Not that she was a voyeur, but it sounded like things were about to get a little kinky. And though it sucked that Puck would rather be flitting around the countryside with Quinn the Slut Extraordinaire, she thought that maybe a threesome with two smoking guys would make up for it. Besides, she and Blaine were friends, and she and Kurt were. . .well, she didn't want either of them to end up hurt, okay?

She needn't have worried, though, for before she even had time to peek around the door, a loud humming sound from above, and the distinct sound of something heavy hitting the roof grabbed everyone's attention.

"What's. . ." Mike couldn't even finish his sentence before dissolving into wretching, chesty coughs. Santana glanced up, as Blaine and Kurt dashed out of the bathroom.

"Ohmygod," Kurt whispered, clutching at the scarf tied around his neck. "Puck was right. It's the zombies."

"There's no such thing as zombies," Blaine and Santana said in perfect unison.

There was a crackling sound overhead, and then a voice, faint through the stories of the hotel. Santana moved to the window and opened it, despite Kurt's frantic admonishments.

"Please exit the building via the roof exit with your hands above your heads, and any weapons left behind. I am declaring marshal law, and am here to save your lazy behinds."

Santana's mouth dropped open, and she turned to face Kurt. "Is that. . .is it. . ." She felt intense relief flood her very being, because they were saved, finally, and someone else would come, and somebody was going to save them, and she could go back to being who she knew she was. Kurt, however, didn't look relieved. He looked shocked and pasty and confused. Blaine glanced back and forth between the two in confusion.

"What's going on?"

"What's taking so long? You think climbing stairs is hard? Try evacuating the entire McKinley High School during a nuclear attack, _that's_ hard."  
"Sue Sylvester," Santana said with a grin. "That's what's going on."

**A/N: Yay, Sue Sylvester! What other favorites of ours have survived? Emma? Principal Figgins? Karofsky and Azimio? And what about that Glee Club from UCLA? Hmmm. . **

**Coming Soon: Where did Sue Sylvester come from? Will Santana ever get her man (or, you know, any man?) Plus. . .a double dose of tragedy, a Kurt/Rachel diva-swan dive, Finn to the rescue, and bonding over hair gel. Stay tuned!**


	21. The Kingdom of Sue

**A/N: Sorry for the delay. . .moot court try-outs. . .craziness. Anyway, in honor of the Superbowl. . .new chappie!**

Sue Sylvester had woken up with a headache, which could only mean one thing: it was going to be a _very_ bad day. Because she didn't get headaches. She triumphed over them with the sheer power of her mind. Her force of will could destroy any cold. But that Friday, she had a headache, and no matter how many pep talks she gave her mirror, it wasn't going away.

She knew what it was, of course. It was Will Schuester and that sissy glee club of his. They were on the way to Nationals while her Cheerios – her award-winning, brilliant, talented, skilled Cheerios – were stuck at home because of a stupid technicality that prevented them from moving on to Nationals. Really, Sue still didn't understand why the choreographed elephant dance had gotten them disqualified. It had broken the OSU gym floor, sure, but that just went to show that the pansy-asses at the university needed to buy a new gym. It was superb. It was fantastic. It was _brilliant_.

Meanwhile, a technicality had gotten the Geek Club to New York.

It was definitely a red track suit type of day, Sue decided. Also a scowl type of day. She strode into the front doors of McKinley with her regular attitude and power. Children scurried before her, which was a bit disappointing. A bit of violence would have made the day better. She did manage to grab Jew Fro (who had to be her least favorite person alive, excepting the gel-head Astaire, of course) and hurl him into some lockers, though, so that was a bonus.

"Sue!" Figgins yelled, poking his little Abu head out of his office. "Stop attacking the children!"

"Crowd control!" Sue snapped back.

She relaxed a little when she entered her office – all of those trophies had a tendency to calm her down. She took a deep breath, and turned on the television. A screen filled with charcoal and dust appeared. Sue quirked one eyebrow. Her headache was going away already.

"In a surprising strike, the Chinese have released a pair of nuclear missiles, striking Brooklyn and the Bronx," the news reporter said. "The only reason they gave was:"

The video feed switched to show a Chinese man. Sue gazed at him appreciatively. He was scowling and wore a suit with a dozen twinkling military medals. He spoke in Chinese. Beneath him, in subtitles, it said: "Stop the Cheerios, Start a War."

"It turns out that the Chinese government is a fan of a local cheerleading team," the anchor continued, as the screen switched back to show her stony face. "When the McKinley High Cheerios were banned from Nationals, they retaliated."

It got better, Sue still learned. North Korea and Pakistan, elated at the aggressive action, had launched their own nuclear warheads. Washington D.C., was a smoldering mess. Chicago was going next. And the U.S., in a clear panic, had released all of its warheads at once.

It was, quite simply, the Apocalypse. Sue grinned. She'd been preparing for this for years, ever since her mother had warned her about the hidden Nazi powers lurking around South America.

First things first: she sent a quick text to all of the Cheerios. Next up: Figgins.

"Sue, what is going on, now?" the Maha Raja whined, putting one hand dramatically to his head. "Schuester isn't even here right now."

"No, he isn't, and that's part of the reason that this is the best day of my life," Sue agreed. "Also, there's nuclear war. We need to get all of the kids gathered into busses and head off to Westerville."

"Westerville? Nuclear war? I don't understand. . ."

"No surprise there," Sue said. "You've never understood much. Let me put it this way, Figgins. The war is on, and Sue's in charge. I'm leaving in five with my girls, and anyone they bring with. It's up to you whether you follow us."

Five minutes later she was on the bus, happily heading the two hours toward the bunker that Sue had constructed. The bus was filled almost entirely with Cheerios and football players. Figgins had foolishly disregarded her advice. Which was fine. Sue had no problem with the rest of the school going up in smoke, and all of the students and faculty turning into radiation scarred zombies. It was going to be a new era, and Sue would finally achieve what the Nazis never had: a perfect, superior race, composed entirely of toned, strong, obedient cheerleaders. And stupid football players.

As they neared the bunker, a steady stream of cars met them, and Sue knew another moment of regret. The land under Dalton Academy had been ridiculously cheap. At the time, she'd assumed that made it the perfect bomb shelter. But now, as she was debating whether it would be quicker to drive in the median or just run over the panicked students, she wished that she'd paid out the extra 7K for land in the wheatfield behind her backyard.

After exiting the expressway, however, the parking lot was thankfully vacant. Only one car remained, with a familiar, flannel-clad man standing in front. Sue pursed her lips thoughtfully. "Cheerios, remain on the bus until I give the signal," she ordered. She looked around for any of the leaders, remembering at the last minute that Quinn and Santana were off with their Geek Club. She was surrounded by imbeciles.

The minute that she exited the bus, the man standing by the car rushed at her. "Principal Sylvester. . ."

"I'm going to stop you right there." Sue closed her eyes and held up one finger. "I abandoned that post, remember?"

"Right," Burt Hummel said. He looked scared. Sue wasn't surprised. Most people were scared. That's why most people weren't Sue Sylvester. "Ms. Sylvester, then. . ."

"President Sylvester," she interrupted. "Thanks to a clause in my contract, should the President, Vice President, and Speaker of the house all die simultaneously in a nuclear attack, I become President. Section eight, clause fifteen. Anyway. I assume that you're here looking for your porcelein-skinned lady-face."

"Um. . ." Burt processed for a moment, before nodding his head. "Yeah, that's right. I'm looking for my boy. Kurt. Have you seen Kurt?"

"As I understand it, your son was headed to New York for Nationals." Sue considered for a moment. "If it's any consolation, he was probably killed by the bomb itself. He shouldn't suffer from radiation poisoning."

Burt's face went white, and his jaw dropped. Behind him, a middle-aged, dumpy woman stepped around. Sue was displeased. Flannel and flab had no place in her new world order.

"What about Finn?" the woman asked. "Did you ask about Finn?"

"I'm going to stop you right there," Sue said again. "Finn is the name of a country, not a teenage boy. Also, the breeze is carrying the smell of decay, which means bombs, which means sickness. I'm going to take my Cheerios belowground. If you'd like to comb with, we can continue this conversation there."

Burt and Carol Hummel nodded their heads blankly. Sue turned back toward the bus and gave a sharp whistle. Moments later of flood of red and white clad students disembarked. Sue led them quickly to the small shed located just off the parking lot.

"Into the bunker, you lazy, no good excuse for human beings," Sue snapped. When the last football player (the same bulky, stupid looking boylover who had threatened her favorite lead vocalist) had entered, she slammed the door shut.

She looked at the fifty-odd terrified faces peering up at her, and couldn't keep a broad smile from spreading across her face. It was time for a new era. The reign of Sue had begun.

Things were going well in the Subterranean Kingdom of Sue. She'd stockpiled enough food that they could all survive for fifty years, which should be more than enough time for the atmosphere to realize that noxious fumes from atomic fission, or fusion, or whatever it was that caused bombs to go kaplooey. She was working hard on her breeding list, trying to match the strengths and weaknesses of her various Cheerios and football players. With the limited gene pool, it was taking all of her considerable talents to match them up. It had to be done quickly, of course, if she wanted the human race to survive.

She was just debating whether to match the one black cheerleader up with Azimio or Anthony when she heard the knock. She cocked one eyebrow. They'd been below ground for three days, and hadn't had a single visitor. As she walked to the door, she passed by Burt Hummel, wearing a hopeful expression on his face.

"Who's there?" Sue asked, refusing to open the door before receiving confirmation that the person on the other side met her standards.

"The UCLA Glee Club," came back the voice. "Are you people alive in there? Thank God. . ."

"What do you want?" Sue asked. Another pause.

"Is Wes there? I'm his brother. I remembered the bomb shelter from when I used to go here."

"West is a direction, not a name," Sue said scornfully. "Now go away. I can't have a group of singing castrados destroying my gene pool, or sucking up what little good air is left with their pathetic, whining emo songs."

"Wait. . .Coach Sylvester. . ."

She knew that voice. Also, she was pretty sure that she could smell the hair product through the steel door.

"Let us in. Please. We'll die if you don't."

Sylvester considered. They did go to UCLA, implying that they had some brains. And that Jesse St. James liked girls, at least. . .and he was tall.

"Provided you don't make any squawking or trills, you may come in," Sue said. When the boys eagerly agreed, she opened the door to them.

She tried to ignore the disappointed look on Burt Hummel's face.

The UCLA Glee Club had told her about what was going on. The radiation sickness that was plaguing the land, that had decimated their numbers from thirty to merely five. So Sue was more than a little surprised when, more than a week after they'd gone underground, she heard another knock at the door. Once again, Burt beat her to the door, and she felt a moment of pity for the man, keeping hope alive.

"Who's there?" she asked.

There was a long pause and then a shaky, female voice asking "Coach Sylvester?"

This time there was no thought, no consideration, Sue opened the door as fast as she possibly could. And then wished she could slam it closed again. Because, sure enough, standing in front of her was her most favorite cheerleader and protégée, Quinn Fabray.

Unfortunately, standing beside her was a squadron of Glee Geeks, ranging from Frankenteen to the singing Hobbit.

"Um . . .can we come in?" Frankenteen asked awkwardly. Sue winced, knowing what was going to happen next.

"Fiiiiiinnnnn!"

Sure enough, the homely looking middle aged woman had darted forward, and hugged the towering teen. Sue just rolled her eyes. "Whatever. Get in, before you let in all the radiation," she said.

"One second," Frankenteen said. He loped back to the car and returned with Noah Puckerman over his shoulder. Of this, approved. Puckerman was a BAMF, and had excellent virility. She would immediately add him in to the breeding program. Except that he was looking pretty sickly at the moment.

"What's wrong with him?" Sue asked with a sneer.

"We think he's relapsing," Quinn said. She bit her bottom lip. "Finn, don't forget Artie."

"Oh, yeah," he said. Wretching himself free of his mother, he loped back again, returning this time with the wheelchair kid who looked at bad as Puckerman.

"Finn?" Burt was there now, too, looking worried. Sue ignored them, and pulled the heavy door closed behind them. No need to let any more radiation in than necessary. "Finn, did you see Kurt? Is Kurt okay?"

"Um. . ." Finn exchanged a nervous look with Quinn.

"We don't know," Quinn said honestly. "He was fine when we left. He was helping to take care of some of the kids who were sick. But. . .it seems like everyone's relapsing so. . ."

"What do you mean, relapsing?" Burt looked terrified. Sue sighed.

"Where are they?" she asked, because really, she didn't care about all of this sickness talk. It bored her. You lived or you died. If you lived, you were okay in her book. If you died it meant you weren't worth being alive anyway. She did, however, have a certain weakness in her heart for the fairyboy, and Santana and Brittany were two of her most talented dancers, so she had a certain vested interest in the kids. She didn't care about the rest of Schuester's losers, though. Of course not.

The helicopter landed on top of the motel, and Sue didn't even try to disguise the look of disgust on her face. Of course the glee dorks would be staying in a flea-ridden place like this. No class, none of them. She would never let the Cheerios go through such conditions.

Putting her megaphone to her lips, she said "please exit the building via the roof exit with your hands above your heads, and any weapons left behind. I am declaring marshal law, and am here to save your lazy behinds."

She waited about two minutes. Nobody appeared. She rolled her eyes. Was it _so_ hard to meet her standards? Really?

"What's taking so long? You think climbing stairs is hard? Try evacuating the entire McKinely High School during a nuclear attack, _that's_ hard."

It was another two minutes before anyone appeared, and Sue was seriously considering heading back without them. But she'd put a lot of effort into this mission, going to her private base to pick up the helicopter that she was licensed to use, and then driving out here armed only with Quinn's admittedly careful directions. She was _not_ going home empty-handed.

The door at the end of the roof finally opened. Santana was the first one out, carefully carrying Brittany over one shoulder. She was followed by – dear God, _what_ was on that boy's _head_ – a strange kid, who was helping the other Asian to walk. Sue frowned. . .was Other Asian _glowing_? Hmm. . .she considered briefly whether he deserved to be in the breeding program or not. Asian One walked on her own, one hand held to her head. Gelfling brought up the rear, dragging Ladylips on the ground.

"That all of you?" she asked.

"Yes, Coach." Santana said.

And then, oh dear God, the girl hugged her.

Sue groaned. The post-Apocalyptic world was _not_ going according to plan.

**A/N: So, I just couldn't handle Burt and Carole not making it. So. . .they went to Dalton, to try and find Kurt. Yay!**

**Coming Soon: Sue's Breeding Program causes some problem, Quinn sucks up to her new life, Rachel/Kurt have a diva-off, and Blaine finally deals with the loss of his arm. Plus the double-dose of tragedy!**


	22. Rainbows and Disco Sticks

13:57

**A/N: The Penultimate Chapter! That's right. . .wrapping it up. May not have finished in time for the SuperBowl, but I think I might be able to finish in time for "Silly Love Songs". Yay! Don't get your hopes up. . .it's definitely not a closed book. The main themes have been dealt with, but the way is open for a sequel. Just haven't decided if I want to invest that much time. Anyway. . .enjoy!**

All in all, things were pretty good. Well, as good as they could be after a nuclear war, when possibly the only people still alive were a football team, cheerleading squad, and two glee clubs. But Finn figured that it could have been worse. He still had his mom, and his family, and his best friends. Too bad that Mr. Schue hadn't made it.

Come to think of it. . .what had happened to Mr. Schue? Finn frowned up at the ceiling. His memories from the bombing were still hazy at best. He couldn't even remember the bus ride out to Nationals (Rachel said it was because of the concussion, but he'd had a lot of concussions before, and he could usually remember most of that stuff. He thought), but he was pretty sure that Mr. Schue had been on the bus with them. He had to have been, right? He was the teacher, after all.

So, anyway, other than Mr. Schue not being there, it wasn't so bad. It kind of sucked that they had to be underground all the time, and that half the glee club had been quarantined, but Azimio and Karofsky had stopped being jackasses, and had thrown the football around with him. And his mom was there to cook, which was _way_ better than just eating food out of convenience stores (when Kurt had told him he'd get tired of Twinkies, he hadn't believed it. Now he did). And Rachel was so overwhelmed by everything that as long as he told her that her voice still sounded beautiful (it didn't) she totally let him get to second base. And, as embarrassing as it was, he totally liked Coach Sylvester's required calisthenics every afternoon.

A knock at the door disrupted him from his deep contemplation of the ceiling (it might look a little like Jesus, but Finn wasn't going to tell anyone that after the Grilled Cheesus explosion).

"Yeah, come on in!" he yelled.

He'd expected it to be Rachel, or maybe his mom. Maybe even Puck – that would have been pretty cool. He'd heard that Coach Sylvester had let him out of quarantine the day before, but he hadn't seen heads or tails of his former-still-ex-maybe-best friend. What he did not expect to see was Blaine.

Not that he didn't want to see Blaine, because Blaine was totally cool. It was just. . .ever since they'd gotten into the bunker, Blaine had kind of separated. He spent a lot of time with the UCLA guys, or sometimes with Quinn or Santana.

"Hey, Finn," Blaine said, sitting down on one of the beds. "How are you?"

"Okay," Finn shrugged. "Mom made pancakes this morning. You want my leftovers?"

Blaine was looking at him kind of funny. "Your mom made pancakes for everyone," he said. "I already ate some. Thanks."

Finn shrugged and stuffed a leftover pancake in his mouth. He still didn't get why Blaine was looking at him like he had two heads. Unless. . .he reached up and carefully touched both shoulders. Nope, he was good. Still just one head.

"I wanted to ask you a favor," Blaine said. "It's a really big one, so feel free to say no."

"No way, man," Finn shook his head. "Anything for a friend. What do you need?"

"I want to leave," Blaine said, and his voice was pitched so low that at first Finn wasn't sure that he'd heard right. But then Blaine glanced up from beneath his eyelashes (it was so _girly_ when guys did that) and Finn was pretty sure that he'd heard right. Which meant only one thing.

Blaine had finally gotten the riditation poisoning.

He put his hand against the other boy's forehead. Blaine crossed his eyes trying to see what was going on. Hmm. . .Finn frowned. No fever. He felt his own forehead, and was glad to feel that it was equally cool.

"I'm not sick," Blaine said. "I just. . .I know that you have your family here, and your friends but. . .I don't know where my family is. I don't know if the Warblers got blown up in New York, or if they're still okay, or. . ."

Oh, Holy Flying Spaghetti Monkey Grilled Jesus God and Rolling Stones. Blaine was crying. Finn should be an expert at this, because Rachel cried all the time, but Rachel was a girl, and she was little, and all that he had to do was hug her and she'd stop. Plus, he could feel her boobs, so really, Rachel crying was kind of win-win. He looked skeptically at Blaine. Well. . .he was kind of small, too. No boobs, but. . .Finn swallowed. Anything for a friend, right?

So he put his arms around Blaine. And Blaine put his arm around Finn. And, huh, they kind of fit together all right, Finn realized. Blaine was short enough that his head fit right under Finn's chin. His hair was kind of scratchy, though. . .not all smooth like Rachel. And his body wasn't all squishy either.

Blaine just quietly cried for a minute or two, before pulling back and wiping one arm across his eyes. "Sorry," he sniffled.

"No, it's okay," Finn said, but it wasn't really okay, because guys weren't supposed to cry like that. "You're bummed about everyone you love. I get it. But is it really a good idea to go out there? Everyone says there's still riditation."

"Radiation," Blaine corrected absent-mindedly. "Yeah. That's why I wanted to ask you. Because you and I weren't affected by it. I don't want to expose anyone else to more radiation."

"Huh," Finn considered. On the one hand, Blaine had a point. And he would totally be the most famous guy alive if they went on a rescue mission together. But on the other hand, he had it pretty good, with the kisses and the pancakes and the calisthenics.

"I don't want to go alone," Blaine said. "But it will. I have to do this."

And that decided it, because there was no way that Finn could ever walk around McKinley again with his head held high if a little midget was brave enough to go on a rescue mission and he wasn't. So he clapped one arm around Blaine's shoulders.

"I'm with you," he said, trying to sound more cheery than he felt. "When do you want to leave?"

"A touching moment."

Sue Sylvester suddenly stuck her head in the door. Finn leapt away from Blaine as if he'd been burned. Coach Sylvester was crazy scary, and even worse since the bombings. Now she ran around like she was in charge of the world (which she kind of was) and it was. . .well. . .unnerving.

"Grab hold of your testes, boys, we don't have time for fairy lollygagging," Sue said. "Into the common room. Matching you up with your breeding partners. Unless one of you has a uterus, I wouldn't count on being together."

And then she was gone, disappearing down the hallway again. Finn turned to look at Blaine. The other boy had one eyebrow lifted so high it was almost in his hairline.

"I guess we'd better go," Finn shrugged.

"Yeah," Blaine agreed.

They walked together to the common room. They met up with Rachel, Quinn, Kurt, and Santana just outside.

"Everyone else still in quarantine?" Blaine asked. Quinn shook her head.

"Puck's just getting Artie. They'll be here soon. Any idea what this is about?"

Finn didn't have a clue. He stuck out an arm, and Rachel quickly wormed her way under. He gave her a quick kiss on the top of her head. He noticed that Quinn was looking at them with that sad look in her eyes she got sometimes, but he didn't really know what to do. It sucked that she couldn't touch people, but that wasn't his fault. Kurt, meanwhile, reached out and took Blaine's hand. Blaine looked down for a minute, surprised, but then glanced up at smiled.

"Get your arses in there, we don't have all day," Sue said, coming up from behind and shooing them in.

"How does she _do_ that?" Blaine asked.

"Two am ninja poops," Kurt said. Finn almost choked on his spit.

They fell into position beside Burt and Carole. Rachel stiffened a little under Finn's arm, which he knew meant that Jesse was around. He was momentarily distracted from glaring at the pop princess when Puck came up, Artie stumbling beside him.

"Hey, what did we miss?" Puck asked. Artie was biting his lip, and didn't look happy to be there. Probably because Brittany was still sick in quarantine, Finn figured. Not that Artie was looking all that much better.

"Dude, are you okay?" Finn asked. "Maybe you should be in bed."

"Coach Sylvester decided I was well enough to attend," Artie said. "She also made me swallow this gross protein thing. Said it would keep me from infecting the masses."

"All right, you pansy assed princesses," Sue roared. She was using a megaphone. Figured that she would have rescued a megaphone from school, but not more students. "As undoubtedly I, Sue Sylvester, was the only one with the foresight to build a bomb shelter and outfit it, and then drive students to sanctuary in it, we are probably the only people still alive in the world." Finn glanced at Blaine. He looked kind of pale. Kurt squeezed his hand.

"Which means one thing: we must make certain to carry on the human race. Since I can't trust any of you pea-brained, silicon-enhanced nimrods to choose an appropriate mate, I have chosen them for you."

"Huh?" Finn literally didn't understand what she was saying. Rachel and Kurt looked pretty pissed, though. Blaine just looked amused.

"Azimio and Blonde #7," Sue said, reading off a list. "Your interracial babies will be sickeningly cute. Go make some. Karofsky and Hobag. Between the two of you, you should have a singular pair of testes. Make them work."

She went on that way for a good ten minutes. Nobody contradicted her. Finn was pretty sure that Rachel was trying to burrow her way into his side, though, which he wasn't sure that he liked. It kind of hurt.

"Now. . .the Glee Club," Sue turned to face them, a manic glint in her eye. Finn would have tried to back away, except Rachel was still glomping him, and Puck was standing behind him. "You are all a waste of space. In order to keep inbreeding to a minimum, however, I must accept that your spawn need to be permitted a space in my superior world. They can be slaves. So. . .Frankenteen, you will hump it with the midget. Between your freakish height and her dwarfism, you should be able to create a moderately normal-sized youngling."

"Huh?" Finn said again. Rachel just sighed and shushed him

"Glasses, you will procreate with whichever one lives in quarantine. Brittany – my personal favorite – or Asian. Your averageness plus their averageness will not be unbearable. Mohawk, Porcelein, you two are damaged goods. I can't have little kids running around who don't know enough not to put their hands on a hot stove. Quinn – I love you like the daughter I would rather die than bear – but you would kill a baby. And the man trying to put that baby in you. Which leaves us with Sandbags and Schue 2.0."

And with that, she turned off the microphone and hopped off the stage.

"What just happened?" Finn asked.

"Sue created a breeding regimen," Kurt said, rolling his eyes. "As if she expects us to follow it."

"Actually. . ." Quinn faltered a little when everyone turned to glare at her. "She kind of has a point.

"You're just saying that because you didn't get paired up with a gay hobbit," Santana sneered. "No offense, Blaine, you're hot and I'm horny, so I'm happy to bang you."

"For the good of humanity," Blaine agreed in a mild tone.

"Oh, this is just ridiculous," Kurt said, furiously pulling his hand away from Blaine's. Finn frowned. So did that mean he was supposed to have babies with Rachel? He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. He didn't know where they were going to find a hot tub. . .

"You're not seriously going to go along with this, are you?" Kurt asked, his hands on his hips. Blaine opened his mouth, but Kurt didn't let him finish. "That is enough! I am putting my foot down. Blaine Anderson, we might just be the only gay guys left on this planet, and we have got to rainbow things up. And if you are seriously telling me that you will go have sex with _that_ –" Pause to point at Santana, who very maturely stuck out her tongue "and you won't even _kiss_ me, then I swear I will stick a discostick so far up your ass that you'll be shitting glitter for the rest of your life."

Pause. Beat. Breath.

"Dude," Puck said finally. "Isn't the discostick supposed to be a penis?"

"Oh. My. God." Kurt fumed.

"um. . .Kurt. . ." Blaine looked pretty uncomfortable. "I don't think any of us were taking her seriously."

"Yeah," Santana said. "I've _seen_ Quinn's stretch marks, and there's no way that's happening to me before I'm, like, twenty-three."

"I don't have stretch marks!" Quinn gasped.

Finn peered at her curiously. She didn't seem terribly stretchy. He wondered if that was another super power.

"Anyway, I won't be here to participate in the crazy cheerleading Nazi's training program," Blaine said. He glanced at Finn. Sweet! Time to bring out the hero card.

"We're going to rescue Mr. Schue," Finn said and – bam – where had that come from? He was pretty sure that wasn't part of the plan. But when he looked at Blaine, the other boy just shrugged as if to say "sure, why not." And it would be nice to see their director again. Plus, Finn wondered about Ms. Pillsbury. And Rachel's mom, and her dads for that matter. . .actually, there were a lot of people he was kind of worried about, now that he thought about it.

"Seriously?" Santana was looking at them like they were crazy. "There's still radiation up there. It's not like it just disappears over night. It should have dissipated, but. . ."

"We know," Blaine said, and Finn wanted to say, uh, no, he didn't know, he didn't know that at all, but Blaine was still talking "but we weren't affected to begin with. And we were all out there for a week. And we're fine."

"Try telling Tina, Mike, or Brittany that," Artie said.

"Try telling me that ten hours ago," Puck said. Blaine looked a little upset at that.

"I meant Finn and me," Blaine said. "We're the only ones going."  
"Finn Harold Hudson!" Rachel turned on him so fast that he could have sworn she'd picked up his mother's voice. Except then Carole was standing in front of him. So. . .totally his actual mom, then. "Don't you think you should discuss suicide with me before planning on taking my only son out of the world!"

"I resent that," Kurt said.

"My only blood-related son," Carole hastily corrected herself. "There is something seriously wrong with your head, mister, if you think you're leaving this bunker."

"It was a concussion, ma'am," Puck said helpfully. Finn groaned. Not helping, dude.

"And you. . ." Carole turned to glare at Blaine. "You're not going anywhere, either. I'm certain your parents wouldn't want you putting your safety at risk, even to rescue them. And besides, it would _kill_ Kurt if you left. I refuse to let you hurt my son like that."

"Carole," Kurt's face was buried in his hands.

"I think it would be best if we all took a moment or two to decompress from the morning's events," Rachel said primly. "Perhaps we could channel our negative energy toward song, and then express ourselves musically."

Everyone groaned. Rachel's newfound tone deafness hadn't kept her from singing at all. It just kept her from singing well. Nobody had the heart to tell her (or the eardrums to deal with the inevitable screaming and crying that would undoubtedly ensue).

"That's probably a good idea," Blaine said hurriedly. "I think we could all use some alone time."

That seemed to appease the parents, who wandered away, muttering about what passed as an excuse for an educator these days. When Finn turned around, everyone was still staring at one another.

"Well, if you two are going, then I'm coming with you," Kurt said resolutely. Blaine shook his head.

"That's a bad idea, Kurt. You'd be exposed to more radiation, and with your condition, I'm not sure we could protect you . . ."

Kurt glared at him. "You listen to me. I'm not some wilting flower that needs to be protected all the time. And I am not going to let my brother and my soulmate go crusading off into certain death in mismatched wardrobes and poor accessories. I'm coming with."

"Dude," Finn whined. "You're going to dress us up?"

"The zombies totally won't care about your outfits, Kurt," Puck added.

"THERE ARE NO ZOMBIES!" Rachel still hit the right key sometimes, Finn realized, as he tried to unplug his ears.

"S-soulmate?" Blaine asked. Kurt walked forward and put both his hands on the other boys shoulder. Finn looked away. Awk-ward. . .

"Blaine, I am in love with you, despite the fact that you are an oblivious, arrogant, slightly slutty, overly-flirtatious, and entirely too self-contained. And I know you like me, too, even if you refuse to admit it." Finn had never seen Kurt like this before. He was standing with his feet spread apart and his chest thrust out. This wasn't a front, like usual. Kurt was _actually_ confident.

"I think Rachel was right," Blaine said. "I think we all just need some time alone right now."

They all watched as he walked down the hallway. Puck put a hand on Kurt's shoulder. "Hey," he said. "That guy's a total douche canoe. You're too good for him."

Kurt glanced distastefully at the hand on his shoulder, and delicately pushed it off. "Spare me the pity," he said. "He's in denial. He'll come around. In the meantime, let's go visit Brittany."

**A/N: Oh, sweet, Klainey goodness. Next chapter Finchel, Asian Fusion, and Bartie say their good-byes, while Blaine sucks it up, Jesse sucks it out, and the hunt for Mr. Schue begins! Some Quick, Pucktana closure, too. Yay!**


	23. The End and the Beginning

13:57

**A/N: So, I completely lied about what was happening in this chapter. I'm sorry! I had no control! Burt just decided to come in and completely take over the PoV and. . .well. . .you get this. Final chapter. . .enjoy!**

Burt wasn't stupid. He knew that he wasn't the brightest crayon in the box, but he wasn't dumb, neither. And he definitely wasn't stupid when it came to his kid. The minute that Kurt walked in to the bomb shelter, half-carrying the blond jock with the big mouth, he'd known that something was wrong. And not just wrong that his kid had been exposed to radiation, and there had been a nuclear attack, and there was a bandage around his hand, but something else. Because Kurt was doing that cheek-biting thing that he'd done ever since he was six, and his eyes were more blue then grey, and his hair hadn't been brushed. And sure, most dad's would attribute all of that to the apocalyptic world that they'd suddenly found themselves flung into, but not Kurt. Because he knew his boy, and he knew that even the deaths of 90% of the population wouldn't cause his son to stop brushing his hair.

Something else had done it.

It was clear that the kids had been through a lot – hell, Burt would never have signed that damn Warbling permission slip. Finn had told them some – how the bus had crashed, how he and Blaine and nursed the other kids back to life (that had earned Finn a crushing hug and Burt's eternal love, pride, and gratitutude). He'd told them about Mercedes death. That one had cut close to home, because Burt had known Mercedes, and more than that, knew that she was Kurt's best friend. She was a good girl. Finn had told them about the cabin, the hotel, the relapses, and the mad rush home. Had told them about how just a few miles away Puck's nose had started bleeding and Artie had started seizing.

Then they'd had to wait eight agonizing hours while the crazy blonde cheerleading coach went to pick up the other kids. And sure, Finn had said that Kurt was fine when they left, but then again, so had Puck and Artie, and they'd been shipped off to quarantine. So Burt had forced himself to hope for the best and expect the worst, and even Carole's gentle admonishments couldn't quite keep his heart from racing or his brow from sweating.

Finn, trying to be helpful, had said "Don't worry, Blaine's with him. Blaine will take care of him."

Because Burt knew all about Kurt's hero worship of the other boy. And if that wasn't bad enough, Burt had met the kid. And sure, he seemed nice enough, but Burt knew a player when he saw one. And that kid was too smooth for his own good. So on top of worrying that Kurt was sick, or in pain, or dead, he also had to worry that he was being molested by a gay Casanova.

When he'd walked in, Burt's heart had stopped. Just stopped, period, and fortunately started up again. So he'd pushed everyone aside and gathered his son up in a big hug, tears pouring out of his eyes, because he wasn't too manly to cry. He was pretty sure that he felt Kurt's tears on his neck in reply.

"Dad!" Kurt gasped into his flannel-clad shoulder. "You're alive! I was so worried. . ."

"Came here looking for you," Burt sniffled. "When we couldn't get ahold of your cell or the school phone."

And then neither of them had said anything for a while, just quietly snuffling into each other. Until the crazy cheerleading coach cleared her throat and shouted "All right, that's enough contamination, into quarantine with all of you!"

So Burt had gone into quarantine with them for the requisite twenty-four hours. None of them displayed any sickly symptoms in that time. At least, not that Burt knew of, although Blaine kept trying to scratch at his shoulder (Burt really thought he'd had two arms last time they'd met, but felt too awkward to ask about it), and Kurt kept shaking a little bit, and the Latina girl was humping everything in sight. Burt was going to have to ask Carole to give her a 'talk' later, because it might not be any of his business, but she was one of Kurt's friends.

The kids didn't do much in that twenty-four hours; mostly just poured themselves into bed and fell asleep. Kurt was the last one awake. He was still holding Burt's hand, even though he was probably too old to need that physical comfort. Burt wasn't going to say anything. . .he kind of needed it, too.

"You guys are tired out, huh?" Burt said gruffly. Kurt nodded sleepily, eyes already half-lidded.

"Yeah," he yawned. "Blaine and Santana had it the worst. They always had to take care of us. And Finn. . .you'd be proud of him, Daddy. Finn was so good. He was so brave."

"I know, Kurt," Burt said, pushing his son's hair back. It still felt as soft and silky as when he'd been a baby. Burt fought not to cry again, because manly crying once was one thing, but crying when they were in a dark room, and there were a dozen other kids? Not so manly. "You were brave, too."

"Thanks, Dad," Kurt murmured. "I'm really glad you're here."

That first night Burt didn't notice anything different about his son, other than that he was tired and alive. That was the most important thing, after all – being alive. But as the days went on, and turned into a week, it wasn't the only thing.

Kurt was careful. Not that being careful was a bad thing, necessarily, but Kurt had never _been_ careful. Not that he was a klutz, but he burned himself and ran into walls, just like any other teenage boy. When he'd been twelve and going through a growth spurt he'd tripped over his own feet. But now. . .before he touched anything, he checked to see if someone else was touching it. He never ate food until it had been sitting for at least five minutes. He was giving one of the girl's a haircut, and spent about an hour on it, being careful with the scissors, with the razor, with everything.

And the way the other kids were. . .Finn treated him the same as ever, but Quinn and Blaine. . .they were watching him like a hawk. Burt was okay with Quinn watching him. She seemed like a nice girl, and she definitely knew how to respect boundaries. Burt wasn't so sure how he felt about another boy checking out his son, however.

Burt didn't like secrets. Didn't understand them, really, so he did the only thing he knew how to do. He confronted his son.

"What's going on with you and Blaine?" he asked, abruptly one night, as Carole and the girls were doing dishes and the boys were trekking out of the common room. Finn was mentioning getting together a pick-up game, and the football players all seemed enthusiastic at the idea.

"Hmm?" Kurt glanced up, a quick look of surprise passing across his face. "Oh, nothing. We're just friends. What do you mean?"

"He looks at you," Burt said. "A lot. You okay with that?"

Kurt blushed at that. Which made Burt blush, because really, it wasn't a comfortable topic. He was okay with Kurt being gay – it didn't change who he was – but he wasn't so sure that he was okay talking about guys. Kurt just smiled shyly.

"Blaine is a perfect gentleman, Dad," Kurt said. "Very dapper. Besides, he's just concerned about me."

"Concerned about what?" Burt asked suspiciously. Kurt paused for a long moment before answering. Too long, Burt thought. Like he was making up an answer.

"I was one of the last ones to get over getting sick," Kurt said. "And I never relapsed. I'm sure he's just worried about that."

"Oh. Uh. . .you feeling okay?"

"Yes, Dad. I feel fine. Thank you."

And that was the end of that discussion. But it didn't put Burt's mind at ease, and he kept watching.

Something had happened to those kids. The one Asian glowed, so that had been pretty obvious, but there were other changes, too. Like once when the kids had convinced Burt to play with them, the big one with the Mohawk had been tackled. The pop as his shoulder dislocated was loud enough to be hurt, but the kid didn't even seem to notice until Finn pointed it out. He just shrugged it off like it was nothing.

Or the kid with glasses – Artie – Burt was _sure_ he had been in a wheelchair. Back when the glee club had been just five kids, it had been hard not to notice it. But there was no wheelchair, now, he just used a pair of crutches to hobble around. Or sometimes the crazy Hispanic girl would hold out her hand just inches from your face, like she was touching something.

And Finn's girlfriend had apparently forgotten how to sing. That was the worst one.

"Don't mention it to her," Finn hissed at him one night, after a particularly painful rendition of some musical number or another. "We think her hearing's off. She's lost her pitch. Don't tell her, she'll cry." Finn had paused for a moment then, and looked like he was thinking really hard. Burt could tell, because whenever Finn tried to think too hard his whole face scrunched up. "Well, maybe someone should tell her."

So he cornered his son again, the next night, when it was the boys' turn to do dishes. Kurt always dried, which Burt had found strange, because he'd always enjoyed dipping his hands into the warm water and playing with bubbles before. Plus, he'd always whined that Burt didn't get the dishes clean enough. This time, however, Blaine was waiting for Kurt, right by the door. Even when Burt tried to shoo him away, he just lurked inside.

"I don't really know how to ask you this," Burt said awkwardly. "I don't even know what I'm asking, but. . .you kids came back different. That juvie friend of yours doesn't feel pain, and the cheerleader won't let anyone touch her, and that diva can't sing. Did something happen to you?"

Kurt paled a little at that, and bit the inside of his cheek again. "I already told you, Dad, I'm fine.

And Burt didn't want to push things. He shouldn't have to push things, but Kurt had always been close-lipped. "All right," he said finally. "But if anything did happen, you know you can tell me, right?"

"You haven't told him?" Blaine asked. Burt turned to look at the kid.

"Blaine, don't. . ."

"You should tell him, Kurt," Blaine said fiercely. "He's your father. He can help."

Burt wasn't stupid. He could put two and two together. The way Blaine kept watching Kurt, the way he was waiting in the doorway. He'd pushed Kurt, and Kurt was upset, and. . .he didn't even realize his hands had balled up into fists until Kurt was untangling each finger.

"Don't hit Blaine, Dad," Kurt said.

"If you don't tell him, I will," Blaine said. "Look what happened the last time you kept a secret from him."

So Kurt told him. Told him everything, for once. Not that Finn hadn't told everything, but Finn sometimes missed important details. Like how the radiation had changed the kids. Like how they'd lost their teacher. He hadn't mentioned the terror every night. Hadn't mentioned the fact that Kurt couldn't feel things any more. Hadn't even mentioned that Blaine had broken his arm, and that they'd hacked it off in the middle of the woods using a chainsaw.

Burt decided that maybe he liked Blaine a little more, after all. That was kind of badass. He could respect that. Of course it also made him feel a shit for the way he'd been treating the poor kid, who had lost everything.

So then Burt was keeping an extra eye on Kurt, too, and he thought that maybe things would be okay, after all. It wasn't like there was much dangerous in Sue's bunker, and the temperature was regulated, and Kurt was a smart kid. So, yeah, it was horrible that he'd been hurt, but at least he was alive. They were all alive, and they'd get through it together.

Until Sue had come up with her Breeding Program. At first Burt was pissed that she hadn't matched Kurt up with anyone, but a look at his son's face convinced him that Kurt didn't really care. Which made sense. But then Blaine had mentioned leaving – with Finn, of all places – and a look at his son's face there showed that he cared about that. A lot.

Burt sighed. Carole had Finn well in hand, so at least there was no worry about the kids ditching and heading out into near certain danger. On the other hand, he was pretty sure that he was going to have to sit Kurt and Blaine down and give them the talk. He was not looking forward to that.

Quinn was with Rachel and Santana when they heard the footsteps going down the hall. Finn wasn't quiet at the best of times, but there was a guarantee that if he was warned to be ninja stealthy, he would be louder and klutzier than ever. It was endearing, and also incredibly useful when trying to catch him sneaking out of an underground bomb shelter.

The three of them filed out of the room, far quieter than Finn, and followed him down the hall to Blaine's room. He knocked twice, before the door was answered. Blaine looked out, and his face quickly fell.

"Finn, I told you to come alone," he hissed.

"I did," Finn said. He turned around, and Quinn couldn't help but giggle at the look of utter surprise that crept across his face. Finn looked even more confused when he turned around, and Kurt was creeping out of the room just behind Blaine. "I thought you were going to be alone!"

"That was the plan," Blaine said with a bitter twist to his lips.

"I said that I was coming," Kurt said primly. "It's my new policy. Get what I want."

Finn just shrugged. "Well. . .okay, but your dad's going to be pissed. Doesn't he own a shotgun?"

"I'm sure he left it at home," Kurt said, though Quinn noticed that he did look a little nervous. She shook out her hair.

"We're coming, too," she said decisively. "There's nothing to do here, it's horribly, boring, and Coach Sylvester's Breeding Program smacks of eugenics and Naziism. Besides, my family is still out there, somewhere, too. I'd like to know if my mom is okay. And. . .um. . ." she couldn't quite finish the sentence. She hadn't even realized that she was going to say anything about it until

"Beth," Puck said, coming around the corner. Everyone turned to look at him, Kurt with one eyebrow raised ridiculously high. "What?" Puck asked. "Finn moves like a whale on a cruise ship. I'm pretty sure everyone heard him clomping around."

"Look, Hobbit, Frankenteen, we're in this thing together," Santana said. "I'm worried out of my skin about Brit, but there's nothing I can do here to help them. You wouldn't have gotten here if it weren't for me."

"Dude, I totally drove the car myself!" Finn protested. Quinn rolled her eyes, and made a chainsaw noise deep in the back of her throat. Blaine sighed.

"Seriously?" he asked. "You have to bring that up?"

"Being part of something special makes you special," Rachel said. "And no offense – I love you, Finn – but you two aren't too special on your own. Between the two of you there's only three arms and one and a half brains. You need us."

"Plus, I have badass superpowers," Puck said.

"I'm just plain badass," Santana added.

"We're coming with, or we're telling Kurt's dad," Rachel said decisively. She turned to face the boys, her hands on her hips. "And Kurt, he did remember the shotgun. I saw it."

"Guys, we appreciate this, we do," Blaine said sincerely. "But there's still radiation in the air, you _know_ that. We can't risk you getting sick again."

"Blaine, just shut up," Kurt said. "This is what friends do. They help each other out. We know the risks, and we're willing to take them."

"Plus it's super boring around here, and Coach Sylvester won't even let me bang anyone," Puck added.

Quinn watched as Finn and Blaine did their weird eye communication thing. Finn frowned. Blaine winced. Finn shrugged. Blaine shook his head. Finn squinted. Blaine sighed.

"Fine," Blaine said finally. "You can come with."

"Good," Quinn said. "I knew you'd see it our way. Now come on, we already loaded the car up."

She led the way out of the bunker, trying to ignore the way everyone else was huddled close together. She tried to ignore the way that Finn had slipped an arm over Rachel's shoulder, the way that Santana was gripping Puck's ass, or the way that Kurt had intertwined his fingers with Blaine. She tried to ignore the fact that even if they found a certain brown-eyed baby, she wouldn't be able to pick her up, or hold her, or tell her it would be all right. She tried to ignore the fact that their chances of success were very low.

She tried to ignore the fact that all she was really doing by going outside again was running away. She was moderately successful. And as she got into the familiar van, and turned on the ignition, that jumping ball in her stomach slowly went away. Because everything wasn't fixed, or good, or ever going to be good again, and she understood that. The sky was soot-colored, and it would only take a day or so before the plants were all dead. She didn't hear birds, and there weren't any animals running around. But she had friends in the backseat, and Blaine had plugged in an iPod. And hey, she was still alive. She felt a moment's worry for Sam, but there was nothing she could do for him.

Beside her, Blaine cleared his throat. "Guys. . .thanks. For coming with. It really means a lot."

"Don't worry about it, man," Finn said, clamping his hand on the other boys' shoulder. "Thanks for saving our lives earlier."

They weren't driving off into the sunset, Quinn thought wryly, as they left the Dalton Academy campus behind them. But as "Eye of the Tiger" began playing, and Puck and Finn started singing along, it kind of felt that way.

**A/N: So. . .yeah. . .very little character resolution, but at least there was plot resolution! And the kids have pretty much all adapted to the changes in their lives. Except for Tina and Brittany, I guess. Messy ending shipwise, but that's how life works, isn't it?**

** Considering doing a sequel story, dealing with the NDs search for missing family, Warblers, and Mr. Schue, as well as detailing what goes on in the bunker with Artie, Brittany, Asian Fusion, Jesse, et. Al. We'll see. See if I'm inspired after Silly Love Songs tonight, haha.**

** So once again, thanks to all of you readers for making this my most successful story ever! It's meant to much to me to share with you, and I am so grateful for all of the comments, reviews, messages, etc. that you have given. Enjoy the resumption of Season 2, and avoid those slushies! **


	24. Building Bridges

**A/N: No new chapter, just wanted to let anyone who didn't catch on know that I've started the sequel. It tis called "Building Bridges" and deals primarily with Blaine and Finn's rescue mission, although there are a few chappies devoted to the other characters. This will be the true relationship closure, as well as helping us to find out what's up with the Warblers, Emma, Mr. Shue, etc.**

**And there IS a new chapter of that up, so this isn't a complete dick move, to fake a new chapter so all of your alerts go off. If you don't want to read it, you don't have to, but it's there if you so desire!**


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